


Take these broken wings and learn to fly

by viveriveniversumvivusvici55



Series: Dormouse [1]
Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Angst, Asexual Character, Depression, F/M, Fluff and Angst, Formerly Tranquil Inquisitor (Dragon Age), Hand kisses are a lost art, Learning how to be a person again, Mage Abuse and Opression (Dragon Age), Non-Canon Inquisitor (Dragon Age), Panic Attacks, Redemption, Respect as a Foundation for everything, Slow Burn, Suicidal Thoughts, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, Tranquil Mages, no beta we die like men, she was tranquil and lived through ferelden circle and kirkwall, so expect that kind of trauma, the slowest of slow burns, touch-averse character
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-09
Updated: 2020-04-26
Packaged: 2020-11-28 01:36:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 31
Words: 46,821
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20958296
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/viveriveniversumvivusvici55/pseuds/viveriveniversumvivusvici55
Summary: A formerly Tranquil Inquisitor.A mercenary pretending to be a Warden.Somehow, these two find common ground in duty, service, respect, and trauma.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is completely and shamelessly me just finding a place to talk about my OC. Blackwall will probably be out of character a bit, but I don't care :) I hope you enjoy reading it as much as I did writing it.
> 
> For those interested, [this is what she looks like](https://imgur.com/5yKjd8C)
> 
> [And here are the two of them](https://imgur.com/yEQCI87)

“Blackwall? Warden Blackwall?”

There is a voice calling his name, soft and hesitant. Well, not quite his name, but the name he has learned to respond to. He turns around to look at the source, and stares at the tiny bald woman, wrapped in a thick black and white coat with a staff strapped to her back. A headband is wrapped around her bald head, there are spots of blood on her armor, and she has three well-armed companions standing behind her. His hackles rise.

“You're not - how do you know my name?” He is immediately suspicious, striding forward to stare down at her (Maker, she’s nearly a foot shorter than him). She’s not one of the thieves – the thieves wouldn’t do him the courtesy of sending a negotiator and she certainly not dressed like a bandit. He towers over her and the moment he starts to press into her personal space, she recoils from him, hazel eyes wide and her lips pulled tight in fear. Part of him wants to wince for making that frightened, but his distrust (who found him, how did they know where to find him, what is going on) overrules that reaction. Instead, there is a fierce frown, his brows furrowed and his hand ready to grab his sword at a moment’s notice. “Who sent-“

He catches movement out of the corner of his eye and his shield comes up without thinking to block the arrow he sees coming. She stumbles back, eyes wide at the reaction, and her hand already reaches back for her staff. At least he can commend her on her reaction time, but there will be time to figure that out later. Especially with bandits rushing at them.

"That's it - help or get out. We're dealing with these idiots first."

She visibly swallows and nods, turning back to her companions. With that, he turns his attention to his conscripts - well, the poor fools he's dragged into this mess to try and keep them safe.

"Conscripts, here they come!" He directs them with his sword to move forward. They are nervous, far too green. They deserve a better chance than this and he aims to give it to them as he charges forward, shield at the ready to take the brunt of the blows. This is fighting that he knows well. Now to make sure these farmers survive it.

Just as he moves forward, there is a comforting warmth around him, blue light flickering around him. He turns just a moment to see the tiny hand outstretched, the end of the cast still on her fingers, and the tiny woman jumps back, trying to find cover behind the woman with a shield. A green light crackles around her hand, although he can’t tell what spell that is. Questions later. He has a Barrier to help him take damage - now it is time for a fight. 

The bandits are easy prey, and he rips through them with ease. The other strangers work wonders - a fierce woman in armor and a shield (a Seeker, if he isn't mistaken), an elven mage who throws ice with every swing of his staff, and a dwarf who takes far too much delight in pinning bandits to trees with arrows from an unusual crossbow. All the while, the small woman stands at the back, supporting the team and sending bursts of magic that drag her foes to the ground. 

Finally, it is over, and he stabs his sword into the ground before looking at the fallen soldiers. "Sorry bastards," he mutters. It's not a worthy prayer, but it's something, and he rises to his feet to look back at his conscripts. They are all alive, thank the Maker, and they look less frightened.

"Good work, conscripts. Even if this shouldn't have happened, they could have," he coughs. "well, thieves are made, not born."

The conscripts look at each other with concern. "What now, Warden?" One asks.

He is firm. "Take back what they stole and go back to your families. You've saved yourselves." _Not that you were in any danger of going to the Wardens anyway, but at least you will know a little more of what to do if the thieves come again._

He waits for the men to scamper off before he turns to the strangers. The small woman moves back in front of the group, and he watches as the woman with the shield takes up position behind her. Protective. Very protective.

“You didn’t answer my question,” he asks, his voice firm and no less suspicious. “You're no farmer. How do you know my name? Who are you?”

The small woman opens her mouth to speak, but bites her tongue and considers for a moment. Then she speaks. “I know your name because I am…an agent, of the Inquisition. I do not know if you have heard of us.”

“Some word has gotten to me. Especially from the refugees.” The Inquisition had been helping them. At the very least, they had earned a smidgen of trust. He'd heard about what happened at the Conclave, but in all the chaos, he knew better than to trust an upstart group that quickly. But they seemed to be doing at least some good work.

“We are investigating whether the disappearance of the Wardens has anything to do with the murder of the Divine." Her voice is clear and steady, as though she is reading something memorized. His hackles rise.

"Maker's balls, the Warden and the Divine? You can't -" he stops himself. "No, you're asking, so you don't really know. First off, I didn't know they'd disappeared. But we do that, right? No more Blight, job done - Wardens are the first thing forgotten."

“But we mean completely disappeared. Not just faded to the background, and far too suddenly. And the Divine is dead. There is a correlation with the timing that cannot be ignored,” her voice is almost monotonous, and he bristles. _How dare she insinuate such a thing!_

"One thing I'll tell you - no Warden killed the Divine. Our purpose _isn't _political," the original Warden Blackwall had been very clear on that, despite what happened with the last Blight. 

“I do not believe that the Wardens did this,” she replied, voice soft, ducking her head as if the Seeker would hit her for saying such things. “But we have to know for sure. I am not here to accuse you, not yet. We need information.”

He could understand that. "What do you need to know?"

"We have only found you. Where are the others?"

_How do I manage to sell this?_

He finds a way to spin the truth in his favor. "I haven't seen any Wardens for months. I travel alone, recruiting. Not much interest because the Archdemon is a decade dead, and no need to conscript because there's no Blight coming. Treaties give Wardens the right to take what we need, who we need. These idiots forced this fight, so I 'conscripted' their victims. They had to do what I said, so I told them to stand. Next time, they won't need me."

The woman nods in understanding, and he feels his admiration for the Wardens swell in his next words. "Wardens can inspire, make you better than you think you are."

Her mouth twitches in the ghost of a smile, barely one. "I have heard of the Treaties and their power. Do you have any idea where the other Wardens could have gone?"

"Maybe they returned to our stronghold at Weisshaupt," he tries. "In the Anderfels, up north. I don't really know. I can't imagine why they'd all disappear at once, let alone where they'd disappear to."

"Why haven't you gone missing like the rest?" The elven woman calls from behind. She is bumped by the Seeker and shushed, but it is a valid question, so Blackwall responds, trying to find a way to tell the truth with lies.

"Well, maybe I was going to. Or maybe there's a new directive and the runner got lost or something. My job was to recruit on my own. Planned to stay that way for months, even years."

The woman lets out a slow breath, not quite a sigh, but somehow like it. "Thank you, Warden Blackwall. We appreciate your assistance, although I am unsure where it leaves us."

She turns to go, and as she steps past him, steps light and careful, he feels his stomach churn as his brain argues both sides of the problem.

_They need Wardens.___  
**This is a bad idea. They could catch me.**  
_I can still leverage Warden treaties. Make a difference._  
**You're not even a real Warden. How can you leverage treaties you barely know?****  
**_That's never stopped me before. This might be a chance to serve something like the Wardens. And if I die, at least I die a_ Warden.

"Inquisition...agent, did you say? Hold a moment."

She stops and turns. Her focus narrows on him, like an eye through a telescope, and it takes all he has not to stumble. She is studying, scrutinizing him, and he makes his words matter, truthful and clear. "The Divine is dead and the sky is torn. Events like these, thinking we're absent is almost as bad as thinking we're involved."

She nods. He barrels on. "If you're trying to put things right, maybe you need a Warden. Maybe you need me.”

The tiny woman doesn't move, although something in her shifts, like she's thinking, and looks at the Seeker. _For approval?_ The Seeker shrugs. “It’s your call, Herald. Wardens can do a great deal, even alone.”

"They can save the fucking world if pressed," he replies, hiding his surprise at the title. _Herald. What have I missed?_

She snickers and nods. Her voice is soft as she murmurs, “We would be glad to have you, Warden Blackwall.”

"Good. We both need to know what's going on. And I think I've been keeping to myself a bit too long. This Warden walks with the Inquisition."

Her smile is a little wider. "We are based in Haven. We're heading back soon - perhaps you would like to travel with us?"

The offer is tempting. "I will gather my gear, and then perhaps I will. I have a few questions for you, _Herald._"

\--

They make their way to the camp northwest of the Crossroads. The Inquisition scouts gather around the fire, exchanging reports and chattering about everything that happened today. There is lots of news that he is quietly processing – that this little woman walked out of the Fade, that she can close Rifts with whatever green magic comes out of her hand, that people claim Andraste herself walked her out of the Fade. That is…remarkable, but he can’t help but be curious. She doesn’t seem like a savior – more like a person in the wrong place and the wrong time and trying to make it work.

Perhaps this is as good a time for questions as any. While the others chatter away, the Herald sits off to the side at dinner, picking at a bowl of soup, eating almost mechanically. Her eys stare ahead at the fire, not quite seeing it. Finally, Thom takes the opportunity and walks over. "Mind if I join you?"

The bowl flies off her lap in her surprise, and he reaches down to catch it before it tips over. A few drops spill on his gloved hand and her face contorts in a wince, even though her eyes are still wide. 

"I'll take that as a 'not now'," he teases gently, handing her back the bowl. “I didn’t mean to startle you.”

She cradles it in her hands, eyes still on him until she forces herself to relax, tension leaving her. "You may now. Forgive me, I am...skittish."

He has enough politeness not to comment on that and takes a seat not quite beside her, giving her a little bit of space. Her eyes flick down to that space and back at him before returning to her soup.

"So, what do I call you, Herald? I mean, I could just call you that, but there's a name behind the title."

She finishes her mouthful and nods. "There is.”

There is quiet. “May I have it?”

She blinks and her pale cheeks go blotchy red. “Sorry. Clarice. Clarice Rivers."

"Nice to meet you, Clarice," he has a large spoonful of soup. Edible, although not amazing. He'd gotten used to that kind of food in the last couple of years. But he is less focused on the food. Whoever she is, she’s quiet, clearly not used to being the centre of attention, and unsettled by something. Or…everything. He can’t claim to read minds. He might as well try to comfort her a little. "You're a Ferelden, right? I recognize the accent."

Another nod. "I am from Honnleath, near Lake Calenhad. Although I spent more time in the Circle there."

He'd heard what happened to Ferelden Circle, but he had enough taste not to comment on that. Besides, that explained the nervousness. "So what brought you here?"

"The Conclave," she replies. "I was a scribe." She goes back to eating after a moment, and after a few bites, starts wolfing down the soup like she's starving. Not that he can blame her - Clarice is far too skinny for someone her size. The coat hides a lot, but he can see the sunken cheekbones and the heavy dark circles under her eyes. It takes her a moment to pause in her eating to finish speaking. "I got lucky."

"People probably have mixed responses to that,"

She shrugs and adjusts her headband carefully with a finger from where it has slipped. It’s brown, no ornamental stitching along the sides, but it is anchored tight, despite the lack of hair to hold it in place. “They certainly do.”

He heard the full version of her title earlier. _Herald of Andraste. _He can’t imagine the pressure she’s under – torn between savior and blasphemer, and people looking at her to answer questions regardless. The last little selfless part of him sighs. He wants to help her as much as he can.

"Well, here's to working with you, Clarice." He raises the bowl to her.

She does the same, expressionless but a little softer than it was before. "And with you, Warden Blackwall."


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A little backstory

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm going to be trying to swap perspectives here and there. I wanted to avoid doing a massive exposition dump for Clarice, so here is a little bit more. I am trying to skirt around some of the things she's been through - it makes me feel sick - but I think we can infer some things.
> 
> This is also the chapter where suicidal thoughts is added as a tag.

Clarice likes the horses. Horses are pretty easy to read, and she has a quiet little kinship with them regarding servitude. Her Ferelden Forder lips apples and sugar off her palm, and she scrubs him down with care. Whenever she feels the panic and unknowing fill her too much, she runs to the horse and takes him for a ride out around Haven, riding until her face and hands are numb. Occasionally, she even buries her face into his mane, just breathing in the smell of sweat and horse. It is a perfect comfort when everything is wild around her.

She is brushing him down when she catches movement beside her. She turns slightly to see Blackwall ambling over from his post by the armorer. She doesn’t smile, but part of her settles. She isn’t sure if she  _ likes  _ Blackwall, per se - but he’s been good with her boundaries, respectful even though he has no idea why she can’t function like a normal person. Besides, he is a Warden and she relaxed when she saw the familiar crest on his armour. Wardens were safe. Wardens protect and serve. She could trust a Warden.

He waves at her when he comes closer, taking a spot against a pole and watching her work.

“How is your friend there?”

She brushes out a piece of straw caught in Chestnut’s mane. “He is well,” she replies, feeling a bit soft just talking about the horse. “He likes that I bring him apples.”

“Horses do,” he smiles. “I took care of a horse once, meanest stallion I’d ever seen. But with enough apples, he let me come up close to brush him out.”

She nods, a faint little smile curling up the edges of her lips. “My father had a horse like that once. I think.”  _ I barely remember my father. I hope he’s okay. _

“Did he get to ride it?”

She thinks hard, pausing in her motions as she racks her brain. Finally, she shakes her head. “No. I believe he let it go to be free. Said he felt bad trying to tame a wild thing. I don’t know what happened to it after that.”

_ That was just before I left for the Circle. I can’t believe I remember that. _

There is a quiet pause, a natural lull in the conversation, and finally Blackwall breaks it.

“May I ask you something?”

Clarice looks at Blackwall rather inquisitively, putting the brush away and giving Chestnut a pat on the shoulder. Whatever question he means to ask her, he looks a bit hesitant...

_ Wait, I know that look. Here it comes. _

She sighs and crosses her arms tighter over her stomach defensively, brush still in hand. In the past, she might have made a gesture to tell him to get on with it or added an impatient and annoyed expression. But she is still learning how to be like herself again, or as close to herself as she can be, so she is still. “At least you’re asking permission first. Go ahead.”

“The guards say you’re Tranquil. Or you were Tranquil, I don’t quite know. But I’ve never heard of a Tranquil like you before.” He has enough decency not to say ‘with all the feelings and that’ or ‘I don’t believe them’.

“And what do you think?” She asks him in return.

“I think a lot of impossible things are happening lately, my lady.”

She cracks a smile at that, slight but enough to be one. She blinks in surprise at it, touching the corners of her mouth.  _ Apparently I  _ ** _do _ ** _ remember to smile, take that, Inquisition guards. _

He looks puzzled, but he stays quiet, waiting for her response. After a moment of figuring out how exactly to say this, Clarice decides to finally put him at ease without saying anything. She undoes the scarf around her head and slides it over her face to hang around her neck. The brand is in full view, the scar tissue a little reddened from the cold, and Blackwall almost recoils at the sight of it. She doesn’t blame him in the slightest.

“They were right,” she replies, simple as that. 

He doesn’t move, studying the scar and then looking at her face. She can guess what he’s thinking - how her behavior sort of makes sense now, but how he doesn’t quite understand how she’s able to be as she is. “I don’t understand,” he replies. “How?”

“Something about the Fade or the Anchor. I don’t know. It’s all a blur, what happened in there. But…yes. I was Tranquil for almost fifteen years before this mess,” she tells him, her voice almost monotone from how many times she’s given the explanation. “I was brought to the Conclave as a scribe. Some of the mages took offense, I remember - said that I was also brought as a warning to the mages of what happened if the truce wasn’t put together.”

No matter how many times she tells the story, it still feels awful, the sorrow and confusion and despair at war inside her. That had been an awful first couple days. How Solas had managed to get her put together enough to run at the Breach, her sanity intact, she has no idea. She might owe that man a few different thank yous.

She grimaces, rubbing between her eyebrows. There is an ache already there, but it is a good reminder to breathe, to calm down.

“Sorry, I…I’m still getting used to it.”  _ Emotions. Living. Everything. _

He is quiet, thankfully, but he doesn’t walk away. When she looks up, he looks concerned, but he isn’t staring at her with pity or disgust. She thinks.

_ Thank the Maker for small mercies. _

“That must have been hard. Coming back to it all.” 

He is diplomatic, at least.  She nods.

“It’s like a nightmare I’m barely waking up from. Although I’m not sure which is which.”

He nods. “If there’s anything I can do…”

_ You could kill me. That would be great. _

She bites her tongue on that, managing instead,  “You’re doing fine. I'm broken but you don't tell me I am. It's good. Cullen tries, but when I can't stand to be in the same room as him and he wants me to remember everything we've been through..."

_ No, no, bad memory, push it down, block it out, you are not breaking down in front of a Warden. _

“You knew him?”

She leaps onto that conversation point.  “We’re from the same town, and I followed him from post to post. Familiar and all that. But he was a Templar. Templars…” she visibly shudders and it takes effort to speak, “have not been kind to me. No one in armour has.”

He is silent at that, looking down at himself, and it takes her a moment to get why. At his armor.  She gathers herself a little. “Except Wardens. I was in Ferelden Circle during the Blight. They saved my life. I can’t trust a templar’s duty, but a Warden’s?” Her expression firms. "Wardens _are_ duty."

He looks a bit proud, if she is not mistaken. “I will not break your trust then, my lady.”

“Maker, don’t call me that,” there is a bit of laughter in her voice. A little more reclamation. “My name is Clarice Rivers. It’s my name. If I’m going to be doing things I don’t want to, I want to be myself while I do it.”

“Very well, Miss Rivers,” he replies, a little bit cheeky. “I’ll leave you to it.” 

She smiles a little more and turns back to the horse. Her heart is still racing in her chest, the memories still threatening to overwhelm her, and she still quietly wants to die. But it helps that there is someone else on her side.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Blackwall decides that Clarice needs to know something about how to fight.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another small infodump. I hope you like it. But going forward, Clarice is sticking with force magic because that was a cool specialization in DA2 and if trained properly, it could be just ridiculously powerful.
> 
> TW for minor dissociation and the opening to a panic attack.

Blackwall comes to a startling conclusion as they move forward in the Inquisition’s missions.

Clarice can’t fight.

It makes sense, of course – the Circles don’t exactly teach their mages how to go on the offensive for fear of them turning against the Templars. Not to mention that they certainly don’t teach Tranquil how to fight. Why would they and  _ how _ could they? But either way, it is a rather gaping hole in the Inquisition’s strategy. They need the Herald at the front of all of their efforts – closing rifts, solving problems so that the Inquisition gains more power and renown – and the Herald can barely defend herself.

“She’s going to get herself killed if someone doesn’t teach her how to fight,” he tells Cassandra at camp one night while Clarice is away. “She knows Barrier and how to run away, and that’s it.”

Cassandra sighs. “It used to be worse.”

He blinks. “How could it be worse?”

The Seeker puts down her cup and looks at him a bit askance. “She was out of control. She hasn’t had magic in fifteen years, and now she not only has an unfamiliar magic that she has no idea how to work with, but she has her own magic that she forgot how to use. Never mind that she hadn’t been through her Harrowing and was incredibly weak to demons.”

Maker, he hadn’t even thought of that. What would have happened if their saviour had gotten possessed? “What happened then?”

“We made her work on the Breach before she could fall apart. Then we had to put her through a Harrowing as soon as she stabilized the Rift. Solas gave her an intense lesson on how to deal with demons, how to tell them apart from what he considers harmless spirits,” she rolls her eyes at the last couple words, “and it worked. She kept to herself for a couple of days after. Solas was the only person she’d talk to.”

“Poor thing, having that much exposure to Solas at once.”

Cassandra snickers softly. “Yes. But she came out of that hut able to walk steady without magic leaking out of her feet, and she could react with some emotion without things exploding around her.”

That much work at once must have been cruel, but he can understand it. Especially now, when she is so hesitant to cast a spell.

He asks Cullen next when they get back to Haven. “What kind of magic does she have? The Herald, I mean?”

Cullen frowns. “Why do you ask?”

“A good soldier knows how his allies work to better face the battle,” Blackwall replies, summoning every year of combat experience he has to look at Cullen, “and that includes our Herald.”

Cullen deflates a little. “My apologies, Blackwall. I am still used to protecting her.”

“That is not a bad thing at this point, Commander,” Blackwall replies.

Cullen smiles a little from where he sits. “Her specialty, from what I heard, was Force Magic. It was a popular school of magic in Kirkwall, so it was a bit odd to see it in Ferelden,” Cullen steeples his fingers and rests his chin on them. “All mage specializations manipulate energy, but Force Mages revel in it. Its focus is on things like telekinesis – raw elemental and physical force with magic. It takes a lot of precision to keep it under control, more so than other schools of magic, but Clarice had focus in spades. She still does, if she can get over her fear.”

Blackwall tips his head, considering. Quite a school for battle magic. “What kind of things could a force mage do?”

Cullen chuckles darkly. “If it involved impact, pushing, or pulling, a Force Mage can do it. Maelstroms that draw opponents, ethereal weight that crush and slow, great waves that throw enemies about like ragdolls, or slamming targets into the ground,” he punches his hand to specify what he means, “It’s a rather unsubtle kind of magic.”

_ No kidding. _

“Good to know. I think I can work with that.”

* * *

“Cullen told me a bit about your magic.”

Clarice looks up from her book, her eyes narrowing slightly for a moment as she scrutinizes him, and marks her page with a slip of parchment, closing the book on her knee. “And what did he say?”

“I hadn’t heard of Force Magic much before we talked. He said that it’s rather…unsubtle.”

“That is putting mildly,” she replies.

“What did you do with it before? Training wise?”

Her brows furrow as she thinks. Her fingers twitch slightly on the book as if she wants to tap them. “There was quite a lot of meditation and focus, becoming an anchoring point while moving the world around you. I liked it, as I recall.”

“You think you can still do it?”

She blinks. “I…I don’t know. Why-“ It clicks and her eyes widen. “No. No, I can’t, I don’t know what I’m doing anymore, I could hurt someone!”

“I think you need to practice,” he says firmly. “You’re good at support, staying back and hiding behind the rest of us, but what if there’s too many, or if we fall, or your Barrier isn’t enough? You need to use all of the abilities you can, and from what Cullen told me, your magic would work just fine on the field.”

She looks at him intently. “Blackwall, I think there are a few other priorities at the moment.”

“You staying alive  _ is  _ a priority,” he doesn’t back down. “If this goes horribly wrong, I won’t ask you again, but I want to see, either what could go right or wrong.”

She thinks for a moment and then hesitantly rises. “Alright.”

* * *

He stays beside her as they face the training dummies. No one else is there – just the two of them – and Clarice is shaking like a leaf. Her staff is held tightly in her left hand, while her right is a clenched fist, bitten nails pressing into her palm.

“Alright. Let’s start with the anchoring. How do you ground yourself?”

Her breath rattles out of her and her eyes close. Her lashes are long dark things, quivering against pale skin. She breathes slowly, and her hand uncurls, pointing down at the ground. It takes longer than he expects – sometimes her eyes snap open and light crackles around her fingers, arcing into the ground and making dents in the snow. But eventually, bit by bit, she gets it, and when her eyes open again, she is calmer. Her hand raises, pointing out toward the dummies.

“Push or pull?” She asks, her voice steady and monotonous.

“Pull.” 

White light envelops her hand, her fingers curl and she yanks her hand back. Sure enough, one of the dummies is ripped out of the ground and flies towards them. Blackwall has to drop to the ground as it nearly collides with him, flying instead over his head. Her eyes go wide and the magic fades, the dummy dropping just behind him. “Are you okay?” She stares intently, looking him over inch by inch, and he nearly wilts under the intensity of that gaze.

“I’m alright. That was quite something.” He is gruff as always, but his eyes sparkle with interest. That move could be  _ very  _ helpful. “I might ask you to try that once while we’re fighting, see if you can pull someone into my sword swing.” 

Her breath rattles but she nods, bracing herself again. Apparently, she is good at rationalizing. He moves on to the next command. “Alright. How about push?”

She nods and grounds herself again. It takes a little less time, starting to get the hang of it, and with both hands, she shoves. Another dummy flies off into the distance, tumbling down the bank.

“Down?”

A dummy is slammed forward into the ground, the wooden pole crunching under the force of her magic.

“Crush?”

Her hands come together, not quite touching, fingers wide and rounded into half spheres, and she brings them together with a twist. The dummy on the ground crunches and cracks, twisting into pieces. He imagines that with bone and blood for a moment rather than wood and straw. A shiver runs up his spine.

_ How did they let her learn this? This is treads the line between function and dangerous. _

“How about a punch?”

She turns towards him, hands still curled, and frowns. He elaborates, drawing his shield and putting it in front of him. “Hit me with your magic.”

The magic falters and she shakes her head. He says gently, “Come on, lass, I’ve had a lot worse done to me. Give it a shot.”

It falters again, but slowly solidifies. In a moment of concern, he throws up his other arm, bracing it behind the shield as well. Her hands separate, one arm draws back, and a fairly unschooled punch is thrown in the air at him. Her fist itself doesn’t connect, of course, but the magic thrown ahead of her  _ does _ and it’s like being charged by a druffalo. It  **hurts** . He slides back in the snow, tumbling onto his back, and his arms ache in a way that they haven’t since he was learning how to fight. Nothing is broken, but that is probably because she doesn’t know how to punch. With a little training and focus, she could break bone with that.

He sits up to look at her. Her arm has fallen back, her mouth open and her chest heaving in a way that suggests she’s freaking out. He laughs softly, putting the shield to the side, and starts to get up. “Not bad. Not bad at all, lady Herald.”

A nervous laugh barks out of her, but no words. He makes his way closer and gives her space while she is clearly on the edge of panic. Her eyes have widened, her mouth has closed to bit her lip, and her face is far too pale. He reassures her, “I’m alright, and you’re alright. It’s okay.”

There is a thump as magic slams into the ground, a loose burst. Her hands are shaking at her side, power pouring off of them in waves. Her eyes are wide, but no one is home. Shit. He bends to look her in the eye. “ _ Clarice,” _ He says firmly. “ _ Look at me. _ ”

Her eyes snap to his as her breath catches and her eyes go wet. It takes all of his self control not to sigh. Poor thing. “Let’s leave that for today, hey? I have some ideas.”

She nods shakily and practically runs away, scooping the staff up as she does so. He watches her go and sighs out loud. There is power and there is focus. She has both of those in spades. But she has no control, and that is because she’s afraid.

That will take some work.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Clarice learns to like food again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This seemed like a fitting chapter to put in. I imagine people don't waste good food on the Tranquil, and even though memories of the pre-Tranquil time are apparently fuzzy, taste and smell memory stick around.

Blackwall happens upon them in the kitchen. Sera is perched on a stool, Josephine beside her (which is honestly stranger than anything he’s seen lately, when can those two ever agree on anything?), and Clarice standing near them, a slightly puzzled look on her face. “I don't understand. Why did you call me here?”

“Herald,” Josephine says softly. “How to put this delicately…”

“You need to learn how to like stuff again,” Sera replies bluntly.

Clarice blinks. “I do not follow.” Her eyes linger for a moment on Blackwall, recognizing that he had nothing to do with this, and when he nods a greeting, she looks back at the two women. “I like things. And I eat.”

“Look, here’s the thing. You’re not starving. You know when you need to eat and you eat it - which is amazing, from what I've heard - but all you eat is shite. Camp cooking, left overs, nothing good. Sweet things help make the bad things go away.”

“I agree, in slightly different words,” Josephine replies. “I understand that you are trying to ease your way back into a non-Tranquil life, and eating bland food may be a part of that, but food is a comfort. We have a little luxury to spare. Let us try to find some things that you like again. Perhaps you may even find something you liked before?”

“It’s good to talk to people about too,” Blackwall pipes up. “Food is an easy conversation. That and the weather.”

Josephine nods. “Exactly. So, we have asked the cooks to prepare a few things, with suggestions from Cullen. We can start with those.”

In front of her is a meat pie, some mashed potatoes with cream and butter, a cup of hot apple cider, and some butter cookies. Clarice frowns, looking at the plate, and looks back up. “Surely someone deserves this more than I?”

“You’re the Herald, and you had a shite day,” Sera replies. “Eat up, and no sharing until you’ve tried everything.”

Clarice quietly picks up a fork and sits down in front of the plate. She spears the pie, turning the fork to cut through the pastry, and finds a small bite for herself. Looking at the slightly steaming bite and back up to the others, she slowly takes a bite.

Her eyes widen the moment the taste crosses her tongue, and Blackwall watches her process it. At that moment, he can see her thoughts freeze and fly as she stares at the pie before her. Tears well up in her eyes as she chews the bite, and Josephine looks worried. “Is it bad?”

Blackwall gets it first. “Right? Tastes so better than that field stew they keep forcing on us. Try putting some gravy on it.”

She instantly reaches for the gravy, fingers shaking as they curl around the pot, and she pours some on top, trying another bite. Then another. Tears fall silently down her face.

Sera gets it next. “She likes it!”

Josephine looks concerned, and Blackwall says softly, “I think she forgot that things taste good, my lady. And maybe it's something her mum made before. She’s happy and sad.”

That clicks and Josephine smiles as half of the pie is finished and set to the side. Then the mashed potatoes, which get gravy after a couple of bites.

Then the cider. Clarice holds the cup in her hands, inhales the smell, and actually lets out a sob.

Josephine gets it first this time. “Who made it for you?”

“My papa,” Clarice says in a wet voice, “and Enchanter Wynne.” She has a sip, trying not to scald her tongue, and then another, savouring it. After a few more sips, s he picks up a cookie and dips it into the cider before taking a bite. 

Sera chuckles. “That's it, that's the right way to do it.”

Clarice is silent, but there is colour in her cheeks, a little more life to her with each bite. Josephine looks pleased, Sera delighted, and Blackwall feels both proud and sad.  _ She lost her sense of taste. She forgot what things taste like home, which foods makes her happy, what things make her smile as she eats them. _

Then, the mark of her heart - she offers them each a cookie. Sera eats it in one bite, making a happy noise. Josephine has a delicate nibble, obviously used to fancier treats but enjoying the gift. And Blackwall…

The first bite tastes like the ones his auntie used to make, sweet and buttery, offered with kindness and a desire to share. He closes his eyes to savour it, and eats more to try and hold onto that memory. For a brief moment, he is Thom, taking a moment to think of what he gave up. 

He opens his eyes and Clarice is looking at him. Her face is streaked with tears, holding the cup of cider like it holds the answer to all of life’s problems. The steam rising from it flushes her face, her eyes sparkle with joy and sorrow, and when shifting sunlight sends a shadow across her head, she looks for just a moment like an average woman, without the weight of her trauma or the world on her shoulders.

Food is powerful like that.


	5. Oculara

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A house in Redcliffe. Things are not pretty.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Gee, how would a former Tranquil react to seeing shelf upon shelf of old Tranquil skulls.
> 
> GEE I WONDER.

The house seemed abandoned. Quiet. In a city bustling with people, it was too quiet. Clarice stops outside it, frowning at the door.

One of the passerby comments on it, “Mages were using it for something, I think. Never really went in. Made me feel strange.”

That is all it takes for Clarice to get Sera to pick the lock.

The door swings open to a dark room. In the daylight, she can see are lit sconces and a table in the back right corner. She steps inside cautiously, her staff at the ready, and makes her way to the back. It is then that she hears it - a faint whisper of voices in the air, almost ethereal, and she recognizes it instantly. She freezes as soon as she realizes what it is, her heart dropping into her stomach.

“What is it?” Sera asks.

Clarice can only manage one word. “Skulls.”

The others immediately step inside, and Clarice can’t help how her feet have frozen to the ground by the table, her eyes locked on the shelf upon shelf of oculara. 

Solas notes, “The Venatori made the oculara and are using them to search for something.”

“Like what?” Clarice asks softly. 

“Like those old shards you’ve found, presumably.” Solas sounds more nonchalant than one would expect when faced with lots of skulls. In contrast, Sera looks deeply on edge.

Blackwall is the first to find the note and he growls in anger and disgust. She turns to him and he reluctantly passes it over to her. 

“I read a few words.”

She doesn’t understand why he looks so apologetic until she starts reading it aloud.

_ Alexius was quite clear in his orders. We must scour the countryside to find more of the shards. Without them, the Venatori cannot claim the treasure our master seeks. For that, we need the oculara. Without them, the shards are nearly impossible to find, even if they are no longer cloaked by whatever magic hid them for all these centuries. _

_ There must be more Tranquil in the area — the rebels abandoned most of them when they fled their Circles. Remember, the skull will only attune properly if the Tranquil is in close proximity to one of the shards when the demon is forced to possess him. Even then, the blow must be delivered immediately. The oculara produced from Tranquil killed even minutes later failed to illuminate the shards when used. _

_ I trust you to continue your efforts in this matter. Our master expects success. _

Her voice has gone monotonous, unable to fully process what she is reading. In the background, she is faintly aware of Solas talking about how each skull is the skull of a Tranquil, of Blackwall (ever-present, ever strong Blackwall) saying that he wondered what had become of them when the Circles fell, of Sera not wanting to think about it, of Solas again commenting on the tragic waste. Not that she could make the words out. All she can hear is her heartbeat throbbing in her ears and that faint whispering coming from the back, she can almost hear words in it and  _ now she knows what it is.  _

And she feels sick. Beyond sick. 

She stumbles out of the house, the door flying open before she even touches it, and she doubles over, retching with horror and disgust.

_ That could have been me. That  _ ** _could have been me._ **

_ But it wasn’t.  _

_ But no one was there. No one cared enough about us to stop it from happening... _

A hand presses on her shoulder, comforting. “Let it out, lass.”

She hadn’t even heard Blackwall come up behind her, and she is so caught up that she doesn't flinch from the touch. She didn’t notice that she is crying until that moment, and with that permission, she puts her face in her hands and wails. The sound is barely muffled, even with one hand pressed tightly over her mouth, but she doesn’t care. All that she can feel is the sheer anguish that was overwhelming her, far greater than she knows how to deal with. She wants to shove off the hand still on her shoulder, wants to be alone with this pain because who can understand it, but in truth, it is the only thing anchoring her to reality. 

So she rocks and sobs, shaking like a leaf, and lets the grief overwhelm her for just a few moments more. 

When she can breathe, the hand leaves her shoulder and moves in front of her. Blackwall’s hand. She takes it and gets carefully to her feet.

Sera and Solas are standing shoulder to shoulder, blocking the view of Clarice from the people of Redcliffe. She is sure that people were staring. She doesn’t care. Solas speaks up softly, “What do you want to do with them?”

Clarice swallows, wiping her eyes, and pulls out a bag. The command comes, “We’re burying them. All of them.”

Later, Leliana or Cullen will question her judgment, because clearly someone was using these skulls to find the shards and it might help them in the mission. But at this moment, Blackwall takes the bag inside where Clarice can’t bring herself to walk, Sera cautiously following behind, and soon the bag was full of bones and crystal. Clarice takes the bag, holding it tight and cradling it close to her chest. 

“Where do you want them buried?” Blackwall asks.

Clarice is quiet. "I know where."

When they pass a camp, Clarice sends a message to Haven, specifically to Mother Giselle and Cullen. Blackwall can’t help but notice that even while her hands shake, there is a different set to her face. Disgust, yes, but there is something else.

Rage.

* * *

The Inner Circle gathers outside the door to the War Room, all leaning close to the door. Iron Bull, who has only just met the Inquisitor, stares at the others with a touch of confusion. "And we are here because..."

Sera shushes him from her position on the floor, ear pressed to the crack. Solas explains softly, "She has never asked for anything, Iron Bull. She does what she is told. Tranquil don't ask for anything."

Bull makes a soft noise of understanding. "But now she will ask?"

Varric stands over Sera, listening at the door crack. Blackwall stands by the door so he is the first anyone will see. Solas is by the hinges, Vivienne at an approachable distance where she can hear but not be associated with the ruffians, and Cassandra is in the room itself with the Inquisitor.

Cullen is the first one to bring it up. "I have to ask. Herald, Clarice, I understand your association with this matter, but the ruins above the Crossroads are not the place to lay the skulls of the Tranquil. As well, the oculara already in place have been helpful to the Inquisition's cause, finding these shards for the temple in the Forbidden Oasis. We should leave them-"

"No."

Clarice's voice is as sharp as a whipcrack. It is restrained fury, and Sera rubs her hands together. Blackwall can see it - Clarice's fists clenched, her brow furrowed, her eyes burrowing into Cullen with disbelief.

"No. We are not using them anymore. If an oculara is found, they will be put to rest."

"Clarice, surely you understand the importance of these shards and finding them before the Venatori does," Cullen says. "We must use what resources we have to our advantage." Clearly, the other advisors do not agree with him, as they say nothing.

"Fuck you. I said _no_."

Vivienne chuckles softly. Blackwall grins. He can see Cullen's wide eyes and gaping mouth as Cassandra says, "Excuse me?"

Clarice practically whirls on them, they can hear it. "Did I stutter? Fuck you, we are burying the Tranquil. Not the oculara, they were more than that, they were _Tranquil._ We couldn't find them, we couldn't save them, the least we can FUCKING DO IS BURY THEM PROPERLY."

Her voice carries through the door to the entire Chantry. Everyone stops and stares, because no one has heard the Herald of Andraste yell before. Why would anyone? Meek, frightened Clarice who could barely hurt a fly, whose voice only rises above a whisper in terror or sadness? 

There is silence in the War Room, her voice a struck chord that echoes in the room. The Inner Circle waits in silence for someone to speak. Finally, it is Leliana. "Of course. My agents will see to it. The shards that we have found will stay in use?" There is no answer, but it seems to be a nod. "Very well. We shall save them. We will lay them to rest."

"Thank you." Clarice whispers, and there is the sound of footfalls. Everyone frantically moves away from the door, trying to pretend like they were doing something else. Clarice steps outside, notices the crowd, and her cheeks go blotchy with an embarrassed blush.

As the door swings shut behind her, Vivienne breaks the silence. "Well done, my dear." Her voice is full of understated pride.

Clarice smiles slightly. "I was good?"

"Righteous anger is a good force of change," Solas replies. "Use it well. Let it fuel you when you can."

"You did good, Herald," Sera grins. There is encouragement from everyone, and Clarice's smile grows a little more. Blackwall offer his own words of encouragement and pride.

_She's learning. She's getting her heart back._


	6. In Hushed Whispers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Forward and back in time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Clarice spent the entire quest feeling sick and horrified. So did I, upon seeing Blackwall in the cell.

“If red lyrium is an infection...Maker,  _ why is it coming out of the walls?” _

Thom looks up at the wooden door to the cells. It’s a Tevinter accent, he knows that much, and it doesn’t sound like the guards. It’s muffled and his head is cloudy with lyrium and pain, but he manages to place it. Dorian. That Tevinter who tried to help them before...

Well, before everything.

“Are you sure you want to find out?”

As soon as he hears that voice, he is standing upright, recoiling from the bars. No. No, it can’t be. He is going mad, he has to be going mad, because that’s…

_ Clarice. _

“I-I hear you!” He calls, voice breaking.  _ I don’t know which I want more - for it to be her or for it  _ ** _not_ ** _ to be. _

The door kicks open and a small figure rushes again, head whirling to place where the voice came from and, as soon as she sees him, running to the bars. He knows that coat anywhere, that fuzz on her head, the brand standing out even more in the red lyrium light. It’s her. Or at least it’s a very good hallucination.

“Andraste have mercy,” he rasps. “You shouldn’t  _ be here. _ The dead should rest in peace.”

Clarice’s face crumples. That is truly the best word for it. She grabs at a rusty key on her belt, pressing it into the lock, her hands shaking. “It’s really me and I’m definitely not dead, Blackwall.” She pulls the door open, but doesn't rush i. 

“I was there. I saw you fall!” He cannot put this together. He doesn’t move, waiting for any sort of explanation. “Alexius’s spell left nothing but ash.”

“You skipped over too much - look at the poor man,” Dorian replies and Clarice looks even more concerned, immediately scanning him from head to toe. 

“Are you alright? You don’t look so good.” 

“Am I dreaming this?” He nearly laughs at her statement, flabbergasted as he is. “The dead asking a dead man if he’s alright?”

Dorian jumps in, “Alexius’s spell didn’t kill us. It sent us forward in time. That’s how we survived.”

Thom frowns. “Forward in time? I don’t understand.” 

Clarice’s voice is clear, if shaky. “If we can get to Alexius, we can go back to the moment we left and stop all of this from happening.” There is hope still in her eyes. Thom can’t help but believe her, even as anger fills him.

“Maybe I’ve just gone mad, but if what you’re saying is true, then this, everything I’ve been through, everything about this  _ nightmare _ is a mistake?”

Her face crumples a bit more. “I should have been there. But I think we can set things right.”

He laughs. “Now I know I’ve gone mad. To set  _ all this right. _ ” She looks broken at that, and even if he has gone mad, he can’t disappoint that face. “If we make Alexius pay for his crimes, that’s enough for me.”

* * *

He remembers her being scared, barely able to fight, always darting behind her companions so that she wouldn’t get hurt. That isn’t the case now. Clarice throws fire and ice with more fury than he has ever seen. Her hands shake, but her aim is true. She slams enemies down and throws them into crumbling walls. As he charges ahead to soak up blows, she always casts Barrier on him, supporting him as best she can.

They take down demons and Venatori together. She fills their veins with ice and he smashes them apart, shattering them. It is nostalgic in a way that he can barely put into words.

All the while, she still looks scared, but it is a different kind of scared. Revulsion and fear working in tandem, rage in the background, pain mixed in. Her eyes keep darting over to him, Varric, and Leliana.

“You were not responsible for this,” he tells her softly. 

“But I am all that stands between a good future and this,” she replies sharply. Her words are heavy with knowing the weight. He has nothing to tell her otherwise. “I could not help you.”

He raises his shield as they approach more Venatori. “You survive. That’s how you can help me.”

She nods as she casts Barrier, and he readies himself to charge again.

* * *

He doesn’t think he’s gone mad anymore. No, there is clarity. Alexius lies dead on the ground, the air echoes with that archdemon's cry, and he knows exactly what to do. He and Varric look at each other, sharing a nod of silent understanding. Then he turns to look at Dorian and Clarice. “We’ll go on ahead - take out as many as we can. Leliana, you’re the last line of defense. Give them all you’ve got.”

Clarice’s response is instant, her voice breaking. “I can’t let you kill yourselves for me! There must be another way!” 

_ For all that she’s been through, her heart is still good. There might still be hope for the future. _

“Look at us. We’re already dead,” Leliana is almost cruel in her honesty. “The only way we live is if this day never comes.”

Clarice swallows. Thom can see her throat bob with it, her chest heave with a sharp breath, her stare firm. He didn’t think he would get to see any of those again, and here she is. 

She hands Dorian her staff and darts forward, throwing her arms around him and Varric. He starts, eyes wide but his arms immediately wrapping around her. He didn’t know her well, but he knew enough that she hated being touched or touching people. He could guess why.

But here she is, her breath in shaking with emotion, her arms around them tight in a silent thank you. It’s an awkward angle - Varric shorter than her but Thom taller than her - but they manage. Thom hugs her back, presses his face against the top of her head, feels the wet warmth of her skin. It doesn’t make up for the year of hell that he’s had, but it’s the best thing he’s felt in ages.

It will be the last good thing he ever feels.

Varric does the same, face pressed into her chest, his hand squeezing her clothes. He’s probably at the height to hear her heart pounding. Varric's breath catches. There’s no witty quip, no banter about the location of his head, no final parting words. The three of them just hug.

There’s nothing really  _ to  _ say, and no time. She finally lets go, and there is a pain in her eyes. Thom longs for a moment to touch her cheek, wipe away the tears that might come, to tell her his real name. All he can do is squeeze her arm one last time as they draw apart.

They go their separate ways - the two of them out the door and her deeper into the room. “Cast your spell,” Leliana says as the door slams shut behind them, the lock grinding shut. “You have as much time as I have arrows.”

They are quiet as they brace themselves. Varric loads Bianca and Thom shifts his feet, sword and shield at the ready. The demons scream ahead of them, and the bootfalls of Venatori charge forward.

Perhaps in this new future, the one that she will carve ahead, he’ll grow to care for her properly. He’ll find a way to deal with his guilt, her with her trauma, and they will have all the time in the world to do it. 

He did not have enough time with her. But by the Elder One, or the Maker - no, by  _ The Herald of Andraste, _ he will fight until his last breath so she has however much time she needs.

* * *

Blackwall watches Clarice sprint down the stairs out of Haven. She skips steps and turns so sharply that the snow kicks up around her boots. She turns left and races straight for him, just barely pulling up to a halt before him. He has no idea exactly what she saw in that future, but whatever it was clearly made her uneasy. She looks sterner, more driven, a coldness of recognition of duty spread across her face, but her eyes are afraid. 

“I have to ask,” he says softly, “what was I like in that dark future you saw?”

_ What did you think of me, in that hell that will never be?  _

It takes her a moment to respond. Clarice clearly weighs the words out, trying to find the right words (or what is safe to tell him). “Angry,” she says. “You were furious about the circumstances.”

“Angry. Good. I’m glad I was angry,” he nods approvingly to himself. “It means I never stopped caring.”

She stands still, thinking, and adds, “You...gave your life to make sure I could get back. You and Varric both.”  That doesn’t surprise him in the slightest. It is exactly what he would want to do. But she’s not done, and he waits for her to be. “They...threw your body into the room before I left.” Her voice trembles and her fists clench before relaxing again. 

“Oh.” There’s not really much he can say to that. His hand rises instinctively to rest on her shoulder, as he had with the oculara, but she shifts away and he pulls it back. “Sorry.”

She shrugs. “Just...try not to die. Not soon, anyway.”

“I will do my best not to die, Clarice.”

“Thank you.”

_ But for this cause, for  _ ** _you_ ** _ , I think I gladly would. _


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Clarice doesn’t quite know how to read her own emotions.
> 
> So when she realizes she’s half in love with Blackwall, she has no idea what to do.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aka this is where I finally put the romance!
> 
> I had to find some way to apologize to dreaminglestrade for two chapters of angst one after the other. This felt fitting.

Redcliffe makes Clarice think.

There are lots of things to think about from that nightmare: the possible future where Orlais fell, the demon army that would sweep Thedas, whoever this Elder One was, where the red lyrium came from…

But that is not what her brain gets stuck on. Her brain is stuck on, of all things and people, Blackwall.

She is fond of Blackwall, that much she knows. He is gruff and stern with enough self-loathing to stop a bronto in its tracks, but there is a gentleness to him too. He respects her, despite her limited ability, and she him. After the training incident, he doesn’t push her boundaries too far, he always asks before he touches her (apart from that one moment in Redcliffe, but honestly, she needed that), and she knows that he will never hurt her. In fact, the Warden is probably the only person she completely feels safe around. 

And she had watched him die. 

Well, not so much die - more that he walked out of a door and was thrown through it not long after, his body limp on the ground. She...had not liked that. Dorian had had to hold onto her rather tight to keep her from racing over to him. That was a strange feeling - that desperate need to protect, the rage from his suffering and death, the devastation of his loss. She hadn’t realized that he’d left such a tangible mark on her.

And then there was the hug. She didn’t quite know what had come over her. At that moment, she was about to watch two of her closest friends march to their deaths and she had needed to thank them in some way. She’d pulled them tight to her, trying to say with a rare gesture that which she couldn’t get the words together for. It had made her skin crawl - she was not giving anyone a hug anytime soon - but it was right. Blackwall had clung to her for dear life, and there had been something in his eyes when they’d drawn apart. She didn’t get emotions as well as he did, not when she was still learning what she felt, but there had been a focus and intent to keep her alive. No one had ever shown something like that for her before.

Her cheeks go red at the memory. She touches them with cold hands, amazed for a moment that she can still blush.

_ I...like him.  _

_ I like him.  _

**Oh no, I like him.**

She is on her feet, pacing for a moment in the cabin she has claimed as her own. She doesn’t know what will happen when she tries to seal the Breach. Maybe she’ll die. Maybe the world will end. Maybe it’ll work. They have no idea.

She wants to say something, just in case things go wrong. 

* * *

Her feet know just where to walk. This is a route that she’s done many times, and Harritt waves at her as she walks. She nods a greeting, hoping the cold disguises her blotchy cheeks. She makes her way up to Blackwall, who turns from his regular staring at the Breach to nod at her.

“Hello, Clarice.”

“Hello,” she tries to anchor herself, leaning on her favourite spot against the wall. She feels unsettled in her resolve. He notices.

“You alright? I know there’s a lot weighing on you.”

“I’m...managing,” she settles on saying. “Just taking moments, tying up some loose threads before we try to close the Breach.”

He tilts his head. “And here I thought you’d want to try and close it as fast as you can.”

“I do,” she replies, “but if things don’t work and I don’t make it, I want to leave the world a little better.”

_ If this goes wrong, I want to buy you time. _

“It will work.” He says it like he knows the future, with unshaking resolve. She flushes a little at that focus turned on her, not quite able to come up with words. He accepts that and moves on. “I wanted to thank you, by the way.”

She tilts her head. “For what?”

“There are a hundred things that need your attention. You didn’t have to take the time to help me, and yet you did.” His eyes are soft now, and Clarice knows what he means now. The Warden relics. The griffon feather, the maps, the journals. 

She feels herself soften a little in return. “If the history you pursue benefits the Wardens, then it was worth it.”

There is a little smile under that beard. “You’ve proven yourself to be an honourable woman. Principled, even after all you have been through. I have great admiration for you, and I’ve never been more certain in my decision to join you.”

Her eyes widen at the praise, her cheeks going even redder. She feels her heart race. She wants to run. 

_ There’s an opportunity there. TAKE IT. _

“I...I would have never guessed that you admire me,” her voice is soft, inquisitive.

“Of course I do. You have the world at your feet. Myself included.”

_ How is my heart beating when all the blood is in my face? _

“A-and what if everyone despised me?”

“If that were to happen,” He sounds incredulous, “I would reject the world for lacking in good taste. Perhaps we could continue as we are.”

_ Us against them.  _

She stands there in silence, too stunned to think. He looks concerned. 

“Breathe, Clarice.”

She gasps an inhale, feeling her whole body ache from how tight she was holding that breath. He looks away for a moment. 

“I said too much. We should return to our duties before I get even more carried away.” Blackwall begins to turn away, and as much as her whole body aches with how overwhelmed she is, she stands her ground.

“No!”

Her voice is abrupt and he freezes. He turns to look at her, a brow raised in surprise. She swallows, wets her dry lips, and tries again, softer this time. “No. It’s...not too much. It’s…”

_ One more with feeling. What would you say if you were normal? _

“You’re oddly...charming for a man I found wandering the forest.”

Both of Blackwall’s eyebrows shoot up at that and he turns to look at her properly. She feels small under his eyes. Not that she feels intimidated, not in the slightest. She still feels safe, if overwhelmed. Perhaps this is another way to test her boundaries with him.

“I always thought of myself more odd than charming, but I’ll take a compliment from a lady. They’re hard to come by these days.”

He is smoother than she thought he would be, rough as he is. It is throwing her off, even though she feels light in her chest. Her hands clasp in front of her, not quite defensive, but there.

“I also find your modesty endearing.”

He laughs softly. “And the praise keeps coming. You are too kind, Clarice.” His voice is soft, far softer than before. The intent in his eyes shifts to something different. “So...is there something large or heavy you needed to be moved?”

It takes her a moment to process that and she shakes her head. “I was just...looking to chat. No ulterior motive.”

He smiles. “Well, I do enjoy our chats.”

_ I feel like I’m flying. What is this? _

Blackwall continues, not quite oblivious to her internal dialogue but not stopping for it. “I have to say, Clarice, you are...unlike any woman I have ever met.”

She raises an eyebrow at him, copying the gesture back. He grins at her -  _ look at that, I’m doing all sorts of new things today -  _ and he continues, “I don’t mean just because of what you’ve been through. It’s more than that. I’m flattered you spend any time with me. I…”

For once, it’s him somewhat at a loss for words. Clarice waits until he continues. “I enjoy your company.”

For all of her obliviousness, that hits her like a maul to the face. 

Oh.

_ Oh.  _

_ I can't deal with this. _

She’s running before she’s even finished processing the thought. She can’t hear anything over her heartbeat racing in her ears. 

* * *

They are sitting by a campfire in the Hinterlands when she finally addresses it. “I’m...sorry. For running.”

It takes Blackwall a moment to recognize what she means and he puts his cup down. “No, it’s alright. I’m sorry for overwhelming you. It won’t happen again.” There is something dark in his voice and Clarice stiffens. Well, that won't do.

“That’s not what I said.”

Blackwall looks at her, eyes wide. Bull gives her a thumbs-up over Blackwall’s shoulder. She takes a breath and tries again.

“It...was nice. All of it.” she holds her cup tighter in her hands. “Apparently my reaction to ‘this is a lot and I have no idea how to process’ is to run. I’m working on it.”

He is quiet. She gives him a small smile.  “I enjoy your company too.”

There is a blush under the beard. Her heart leaps. They sit in silence around the fire, keeping to themselves, but there is nothing else to say. The moment is perfect.


	8. In Your Heart Shall Burn

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Haven falls. They nearly lose her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am ** still struggling through this mess ** because I'm playing Clarice on hard mode. But I needed to write this, so here I am.
> 
> Happy Halloween!

“Where is she?”

“I thought she was behind us!”

Horror grabs Blackwall by the chest and he turns to run back down the hill. Bull grabs his arms, holding him back. Blackwall digs in his heels, trying to wrench his way out of the Qunari’s grip.

_ No. No, I can’t leave her behind, I can’t leave her _ ** _alone_ ** _ with that thing! _

“We can’t just leave her!”

He can’t see her from this far away. All he can see is the trebuchet and the archdemon - the _ARCHDEMON, he must be having a nightmare - _circling it. She’s down there. Clarice - their Herald, his friend, the woman he is slowly falling in love with - is alone. Then the trebuchet launches, the rock flying up towards the mountain, and a dot, a lone figure, runs away from the trebuchet. His eyes track the dot with desperate concern. The mountain shakes with the stone’s impact and the snow begins to thunder down towards Haven, trees cracking under the force.

“Come on, Mouse,” Varric mutters. “Run. Run as fast as you can.”

The archdemon launches into the air with powerful wingbeats, the air filling with a bone chilling screech, its master on its back. The avalanche rips through Haven, covering Red Templars and buildings until there is nothing but a blanket of white. Blackwall feels like he’s been punched in the chest as the tiny dot disappears. They can barely tell that there was a town there, let alone the Herald. As the snow settles, everyone is silent, fear clogging their throats as they collectively realize that they may have lost the Herald of Andraste. 

Bull’s fingers loosen and Blackwall falls out of his grip, only to sink to his knees. This feels like the brief second in Redcliffe when he thought Alexius had burned her to ash, but worse. Cold dread has seeped into him, stealing his breath, freezing his heartbeat, wrenching his stomach into knots. All he can do is stare down, hoping beyond hope that there is movement. That she survived.

Bull is the first to move, touching his shoulder. “Come on. We need to get moving.”

“We can’t leave her,” he says softly, eyes still locked on the expanse of white and green.

“She’s tough. She survived the Fade. If anyone can survive that,” he feels Bull pointing at the disaster scene below, “-she can. The scouts will keep looking. Now, we gotta get these people to safety. That’s what Clarice would want us to do.”

That is what makes him get to his feet. He sheathes his sword and shield, nodding slowly. They all make their way up to the safe zone. Rows of figure stand knee-deep in the snow, fear etched in their faces. Adan is holding Minaeve, her arm draped over his shoulders; Threnn’s face is stony and firm in a ghost of Ostagar; and Cullen’s face is full of badly hidden despair. Blackwall turns back and spares one last look at the snow. He is not a deeply religious man, but he takes a moment to pray harder than he has ever prayed before. 

_ Maker, Andraste, whoever is watching out for us - please let her live. Please. We are lost without her. _ ** _I _ ** _ am lost without her. _

* * *

“There’s someone coming towards us!"

Blackwall has been at the ready since they set up camp, and he is up there with the rest, peering through the snow and wind. His eyes are not as good as any scout, but he catches what they see soon enough and his heart leaps into his chest. A small shape stumbles through the snow, leaning on a staff before collapsing to its knees. There is a flash of green from a hand resting on their lap, lighting up a striped fur coat, and an avalanche of relief swarms him.

_ It’s her. _

“It’s her!” Cullen’s relief is palpable.

“Thank the Maker!” Cassandra’s is too.

Blackwall has no words. His heart is racing in his chest, his throat clenched up with relief, and he charges forward, powering through the snow like an angry bronto. He manages to make it ahead of anyone else, dropping to his knees in front of Clarice. She is pale, her lips tinged with blue, and he thanks Andraste that Clarice is always bundled up. It is probably the only reason she hasn’t died of hypothermia. Her eyes are at half mast, barely conscious, but they lock on him like he’s the only real thing around her. “My lady, let me help?” He asks softly as the others surround her, his arms outstretched.

She nods just slightly. He carefully lifts her into his arms. She whimpers when her shoulder presses against him and he winces. He tries to adjust accordingly, putting her weight more on his arms than his body. She is just barely shivering, and her eyes are just barely open.

“Keep your eyes on me?” He asks her softly. Her eyes flick up to him and she manages a fraction of a nod before wincing. “We’ll get you a healer. You’ll be okay. Just keep your eyes on me.”

He isn’t sure whether to pray with gratitude that she’s alive or curse the gods for hurting her. Either way, he carries her down to the healer as gently as he can, Cassandra and Cullen peering over his shoulders to look at her. She looks at Cullen for a moment and whispers, “Corypheus.”

“What?” Cullen asks softly.

Clarice takes a breath, trying to gather her thoughts, and whimpers at the effort. Broken ribs. She weakly waves off their concern and tries again. “His name. Corypheus. Magister. Black City.”

“He claims he is one of the original magisters?” Cassandra asks in horror. “Who went to the Golden City and corrupted it?”

“Is he darkspawn?” Cullen asks. 

Clarice nods slightly. “Anchor.” She wiggles her fingers and the green lights up. “Meant for him. I took it.”

They get to the healer’s tent and Blackwall gently lays her on a bed. Mother Giselle immediately rushes to her, along with every healer that is left standing. “Help her,” Blackwall begs needlessly.

The healers pull off her coat and heavy pants to reveal her underlayers, trying not to hurt her anymore, and everyone watching hisses. She is covered in bruises from her armour, her collarbone is badly broken, her hip looks like it’s out of alignment, and there are enough cuts and bruises that she should be screaming in pain. And, to top it off, she’s freezing. 

“Everyone out. Give her space. We’ll call you in when she’s ready.”

Clarice’s eyes, for all of this, are locked on Blackwall. It nearly kills him to leave the tent, but Cole, the strange boy who warned them of the Templars, says softly, “Crashing, cold, it hurts so much but I have to keep walking, I have to warn him, I have to warn them all, I have to make it. She hopes you’ll stand guard.”

Her eyes go wide, clearly unsettled, but there is a slight nod before she leans back on the mat, letting the healers work. Blackwall takes that command as gospel and moves to stand outside the tent. He’ll make sure no one disrupts her.

_ I have to warn him. _

Warn who? Who holds more weight than telling the rest of the Inquisition?

* * *

Apparently, she managed to cast Barrier as the avalanche hit and drank every last health potion that she had as she made her way to the camp. It’s not as bad as it could be, but she is still rather broken. He hears the words through the tent walls as he keeps his vigil. 

_ Broken ribs. _  
_ Ruptured ligaments. _  
_ Dislocated shoulder. _  
_ Broken collarbone. _  
_ Dislocated hip. _  
_ Concussion. _ _  
Lost a lot of blood._

He flinches with every word and keeps an eye on the tents around him. The advisors try to peek in to check on her every now and then, especially Cullen, but his glare is enough to keep them back. “She just survived an avalanche,” he says firmly. “Let the woman be.”

She comes to while the advisors are fighting. Blackwall can hear her inside the tent, talking to Mother Giselle in a shaky voice. 

“Rest, my child. You are badly injured.”

“I’ve felt worse.”

“That is not a good thing, Herald. You still need to rest.”

There is quiet. “Is he-”

“The Warden is outside. Would you like me to get him?”

More quiet, but the door opens and Mother Giselle beckons him in. He follows gladly, immediately making his way to her bed and kneeling beside it. “Clarice.” All the worry that has been eating at him, the despair and desperate hope, leaks out into her name. He can’t help it. Her brow furrows and she smiles sadly.

“Sorry.”

“You have nothing to be sorry for,” he says softly. “I can’t believe you made it back.”

“Nearly didn’t. Considered staying in the snow,” Clarice’s eyes look off in the distance for a moment, missing the flood of despair that sweeps across his face that he manages to mask before she looks back at him. “I had to warn you.”

_ Warn him. _

_ Warn ME? _

That is too emotionally significant to focus on. He shifts the topic. “How do you feel?”

“Like shit.”

He can’t help the laugh, scared as it sounds. “I imagine so. You’ll heal though?”

Clarice nods slightly. “I just need time. And maybe someone to help me walk.”

The yelling outside gets louder for a moment and Clarice looks over his shoulder. “How long have they been at it?”

“Awhile,” he replies. “Everyone is scared.”

She starts to move and Mother Giselle is there immediately to press her gently back to the bed. Clarice flinches visibly at the touch and winces at her flinch. Blackwall frowns. “She doesn’t like being touched unless it’s necessary, Mother.”

“It is. She needs to rest,” there is firmness in the Chantry mother’s eyes. “Let the magic work, have some more potion, and then we can bring you out.”

Clarice frowns. Blackwall reluctantly agrees with the Mother. “Rest. When you can stand, we’ll take you out and you can talk to them.”

* * *

When she comes out later, she is leaning on Blackwall, her arm in a sling and her staff on her back, but she is standing.

And when Haven kneels at her feet with a hymn, and her eyes are wide with some emotion she can’t seem to process, she lets go of him for one moment to stand on her own, looking out over the Inquisition that serves _ her… _

Blackwall knows that she is the strongest woman he has ever known. Bull was right. If anyone can lead them, if anyone can survive this…

It’s Clarice.


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They arrive at Skyhold. First romantic cutscene.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I AM FINALLY AT SKYHOLD IN CLARICE'S PLAYTHROUGH. HA **HA.**

“So this is Skyhold.”

Blackwall is a familiar and pleasant face. Clarice takes comfort in that familiarity as she walks up to him. As one of the few who can make her smile, he gets that trust even a bit more. He turns to look at her, her arms clasped behind her back, a bit uneasy in her new clothes and the responsibility weighing on her shoulders. He softens a little, but cuts straight to business.

“Come, let’s walk the ramparts. I want to examine our fortifications."

She nods, glad to fall into the faithful embrace of duty.

“Of course.”

They make their way up to the battlements, Blackwall walking a bit slower so her shorter legs can keep up with him. She takes in everything around her, taking mental notes in her own way, and frowns at the crumbling sections she can see. The Inquisition will have a lot of work to do to make this space livable, but Blackwall seems a bit more confident as he leans against the battlements.

“We’ll be able to see Corypheus coming from miles away.”

That they can. She leans against the stone next to him, closing her eyes as the wind blows through her slowly growing hair, and she nods, opening her eyes again. It’s quite a view, but she appreciates his tactical viewpoint of it.

“Good. Corypheus thinks we’re beaten. By the time he finds us, we will be ready to face him.”

Blackwall makes an approving sound and turns to her.  “I know soldiers. I know  _ our  _ soldiers. Corypheus made a hundred enemies when he kicked down our door. And when he came after you, he really made it personal. “

She frowns. “Have they become that attached to me?”  _ To a Tranquil-come-Herald? _

He nods. “You should hear what they say.”

_ I’m not sure I do. _

But he continues regardless. “Let him come.” He pounds a fist into her hand. “I swear I’ll take that twisted bastard down, even if I have to die to do it.”

The words stop her, and Clarice leans up, staring at him intently.

The first thought that occurs to her is,  _ Can I really inspire that kind of dedication? _

The one that immediately follows is,  _ Maker, no, the thought of him dying, NO. _

“I’m grateful for your support,” she chooses her words carefully.

“It’s my job, isn’t it? Killing darkspawn?” He chuckles.

She smiles in return. “But…forgive me,” she inhales, the words more than a little difficult to get out, “I don’t want to lose anyone else to Corypheus. You included. Especially you, my friend.”

Then Blackwall is frowning at her, and it makes her chest twist.

“You can’t afford to think I’m special. I’m a soldier, no different than any soldier lost at Haven.”

“Soldiers treat me like the plague, Blackwall,” she replies. “As if Tranquility is something they could catch. You don’t. You’re possibly the first person I’ve wanted to call a friend, or even close to that, in years. Don’t make that seem like nothing.”

He seems to bite his tongue, and stares at her a bit owlishly. She shrugs, not trusting her own voice any more than this. He turns away, putting space between them, and she feels a bit sick.

“I am fond of you, it’s true,” he begins again. “But, you’re the Inquisitor, the Herald of Andraste. Even now, there are people flocking to your banner, ready to serve – to die. We must remain focused on the task at hand.” He walks away from her. 

She frowns at him. “I’m not what they say I am. I never asked for them to believe. I didn’t ask for any of this!”

“But it happened, and they do, and it’s too late to go back. Whoever you were is gone. They believe you’re the Herald because they need to. They believe in you. They need you to be Andraste’s messenger, because it gives them hope, and without that hope, all that’s left is despair.”

_ Maker, do I know that. _

_"_They need that hope. The truth doesn’t matter.”

She glares. “And what I feel? Does that not matter?”

With credit to him, his conviction stays strong. “We’re both bound by duty. Our lives aren’t ours to live. We know the costs of it.” His voice goes soft for a moment. “Don’t make this harder than it has to be.”

Her anger wilts and she sighs, leaning against the wall. There is something familiar in his voice, in those eyes. It’s like she is staring into a looking glass. “Is duty the only thing that’s holding you together too?”

He stops in his retreat and stares at her. Clarice sighs and looks at Skyhold, not able to meet his eyes. The words spill out of her.

“If there wasn’t duty, what I have to do for the Inquisition, what they think I am, I wouldn’t have tried to find you in the snow.,” she replies. “Blackwall, they believe in something that’s not real, because what is left of me that is?”

She can’t meet his eyes. She really, really can’t. But he steps closer, closes the gap he made, and stops just shy of her.

“Duty is what makes a pale life worth living,” he replies, his voice knowing and soft. “Even when nothing else does.”

She turns to look at him. He looks beyond empathetic, and she can’t help how her face crumples a little at the sight of it.

_ I didn’t think anyone understood that. _

He shakes himself and steps back. “Ah, listen to me talk. Your time is valuable, and I’ve taken up enough of it.”

“No, please,” she steps closer as he tries to run away. “You’re…not asking anything of me. I mean, nothing more than what they all are. Just…stay. A little?”

_ Let me forget that I’m a Herald. Let me pretend that I’m a woman and you are a man, and we aren’t on the brink of armageddon. _

He stills, but nods, returning to the battlements beside her.

“Alright.”


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Little moments that didn't get a whole chapter. Jumping, drinking, riding, and flirting.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> These didn’t get their own chapter, but they are entertaining regardless. They are mostly about Clarice’s adventuring quirks. The first part's unofficial title is 'YEET'.
> 
> References to the last part, here is a [full body shot of Clarice](https://imgur.com/a/RHjibgU), and here is [a close-up on her face.](https://imgur.com/a/ePJaA41)

**Jumping**

“Well, that’s a long way down.”

The Forbidden Oasis is beautiful with its sandstone rock and flashes of green amongst the brown. The spires of stone, worn away by time and wind, are just as beautiful. You can see the whole oasis from one of them, but it does show you how limited the pathways are around it. You have to go through the winding maze of canyons.

Clarice leans over the edge, looking at the campsite that had been scouted ahead. It is probably a hundred-foot drop onto sand and stone. It won’t be pleasant. She backs away from the edge, considering. 

“That’ll be a walk, but I think I can see a path.” Solas is mapping it out with his finger, tracing the carved paths. “Might take half an hour or so.”

There is a familiar boom of energy, and Blackwall turns to see Clarice summoning a Barrier around herself. He has seen it enough to know exactly what she'd doing.

“Clarice, for the love of Andraste!”

By the time he finishes his sentence, Clarice has darted forward, taking long steps, and leaped off the edge of the tower. She falls like a stone, her arms windmilling for stability, and after a few seconds, he hears both the thump of her hitting the ground and her shout of pain. 

Varric leans over the edge. “You alright, Mouse?” There is no audible answer but Varric leans back. “She’s okay. I doubt she even has a scratch.”

Blackwall groans. “Are we walking to meet her or…”

Solas gestures for Blackwall to come closer and he casts Barrier around the three of them. “At this point, I believe it’s futile to convince her  _ not  _ to launch herself off of cliffs.”

They jump together, Blackwall landing first with a thud that rattles his teeth. There is no damage, but it does feel rough. He rubs his knees. “I’m too old for this.”

Clarice is waiting patiently for them, having moved out of the way so they had a safe spot to land, and simply points ahead of them. Their mouths open in awe at the sight of the oasis and the waterfall.

“The Temple is up there,” she says softly. “Above the waterfall.”

“Worth the jump?” Blackwall asks.

She nods. “Worth it.”

* * *

**Drinking**

Iron Bull laughs and pats her shoulder. She winces, cupping her head in her hands at the sound of his laughter. “Come on, boss, you’re a tough cookie. You’ll survive.”

“What’s going on?” Blackwall walks over and Clarice winces again, putting her head on the table. 

Stitches brings over a mug of water and a small potion, placing them in front of her. “Drink up both. It’ll make it more tolerable.”

The idea of filling her stomach with anything makes her grimace, and she eyes the potion. Stitches chuckles. “Not alcohol. Just a healing potion.”

Blackwall smiles. “Oh, I see.”

She downs the potion, followed swiftly by water, and she puts both containers down. 

“I am never drinking again.”

“You just got no tolerance, boss. Drink more regularly and maybe you’ll be able to stand up to maraas-lok again.”

She flips Bull a middle finger. The entire table laughs, and she blocks her ears with both hands. They quiet down quickly. 

“So, how do hangovers feel? I take it this is your first one.”

“I feel like I’ve been made Tranquil all over again,” she grumbles. “Only it was done with a bottle.”

Bull jokes to dance around the topic, “A cask, really. But is there any other way to celebrate taking down a dragon?”

Blackwall chokes on air. “A DRAGON?” The  _ one time he doesn’t go with her… _

“Not so loud,” she mutters before looking up at him, her eyes bloodshot. “It was an accident. There was fire everywhere. We went to go see. And then it saw us.”

“Where?”

“Dusklight Camp, by Lady Shayna’s Valley,” Vivienne explains. “A Fereldan Frostback, as I am told. A High Dragon.”

Blackwall looks like he’s going to be sick.

“We went through every health potion we had,” Sera grins. “Thank Andraste Viv and Mouse know ice spells.”

Blackwall looks like he’s going to _die_. Bull is trying not to laugh.

“Don’t worry, Blackwall. We’ll find others and we can celebrate properly!” Bull claps him on the shoulder.

Clarice groans from the table. “Without me. Absolutely without me.”

* * *

**Riding**

Clarice loves to ride. Everyone is aware of this. She often goes to visit the Hinterlands just to give Chestnut a chance to race around the farms that he loved. It does get annoying that she charges off and they have to take shortcuts to catch up to her. Or just wait at the camp until she returns. She certainly never invites anyone up with her. Sometimes, she just needs to be alone. 

Once, though, they need to get out and they need to get out fast. Solas and Varric have leaped up the embankment - Fade Stepping and Evading as best as they can - but Blackwall can barely walk. There is a demon bite in his leg, far too much poison in him and not enough blood, and none of them have any more potions. He knows there’s no way he can Charge out of the way. His eyes half close as the terrors prepare to march on them and he prepares to be overrun.

Clarice whistles sharply, startling him from his daze, and he hears the familiar sound of a horse whickering with worry. His arm is pulled upward abruptly to slide over Clarice’s shoulders and she hauls him to his feet. “Come on, Blackwall. I’ve got you. Just try to get up.”

She casts Barrier with a thought and pushes him up against the saddle. With what strength he has left, he pulls himself up, trying to sling himself over the horse. It is a mess, his body hanging over and his legs dangling on one side, but he’s up. Clarice leaps up to sit behind him, tugging him over to an upright position, and presses him forward to lean onto the horse’s neck.

“Hold on!”

She snaps the reins and he grips with every ounce of energy he has left in time as Chestnut launches out of the pass. As her Barrier fades, Solas casts another to protect them and calls, “Get him to camp! We’ll meet you there!”

There is a small hand pressing on his back, keeping him on the horse, and an urgent voice saying “Hold on, Blackwall. Hold on.”. That is all he remembers before everything goes dark.

When he comes to consciousness again Everything hurts. Blackwall sits up, but a hand presses him back down. A healer.

“Easy, ser Blackwall. You took quite a beating.”

His memory comes back to him and he remembers the rift. Clarice hauling him up with more strength than he thought she had. Her body tucked against his, her hand pressing him onto the horse to keep him anchored. 

She is sitting on the bed next to him, hazel eyes watching him. Her hands are cupped as though she was praying, and his heart throbs for a moment.

“It’s a good thing she got you here so quick,” the healer says, not noticing the tension. “You’d be dead otherwise.”

_ You let me ride. _

Her expression is steady, as if to say  _ I’d do it again. _

Oh, he is so in love with her.

* * *

**Flirting**   


When she comes to see him next, she looks like an entirely new person. It stops Blackwall in his tracks and he nearly takes off a finger with his chisel. 

Clarice’s hair had slowly been growing out with patience and time, and it looks like she’s sat down with Krem and let the man take a razor to it. The sides are shaved down, and there is a large fringe of dark brown hair that covers the top of her head. The fringe hangs down slightly, covering the top edge of the brand, and when she smooths it back, he sees a sharp widow’s peak in her part. Her ears are pierced, thanks to Varric, and little silver hoops sit in them. As well, falling face-first into pallets of wood and having red lyrium thrown at her left its mark. Clarice has new scars across her face, just missing her right eye. They cut across her cheek and chin angrily, leaving furrows in her pale skin. She’s put kohl around her eyes to try and draw the attention from the scars and brand, but now they all compete for attention in what draws the eye first. 

She’s also found an alternative to the plain beige outfit that had been thrust upon her. The jacket is blue with little black patterns across it, like small suns. Her trousers are darker, as are the boots. It looks like she dressed herself, rather than having someone else pick out the clothes and tell her to look pretty. It makes her look more...whole. 

It’s not just that, though. She’s…

_ Beautiful. She’s absolutely beautiful. _

“Is something wrong?” She asks softly. He shakes himself and goes back to work. 

“No. You just look different. Took me by surprise.”

“I tried to,” she replies, and he can hear the dry smile in her voice without even looking. “I want people to see me as I want to be seen.”

_ Maker, I love you. _

He shoves the thought away viciously and turns to look at her again, a slight smile on his lips. “It suits you.”


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A more serious conversation. Frank discussions of suicidal thoughts, depression, and anxiety ahead. Some hints of sexual assault.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is going to be a bit more serious. One thing that has been on my mind since I made Clarice was the description of Pharamond awaking from Tranquility in the book Asunder, and of the response to his cure, i.e., that his heightened emotional state (seemingly a side effect of the cure) was said to make him more susceptible to demonic influence. 
> 
> Then there was this conversation between Mother Giselle and a Tranquil in Haven when asked if she would want her self restored: 
> 
> “I do not believe that would be wise. The number of demons present might leave me vulnerable to possession. I might also experience feelings of discomfort over events that occurred while I was in this state. I can survive in this fashion. If I were made whole again, I might not.” 
> 
> There’s an emotional and psychological side to it that was definitely glossed over. I wanted to explore it. So here we are.

Clarice is sitting with Blackwall in the barn when he finally asks about it. He is working on the griffon toy for the children, and she has a book on ancient Tevinter dragon cults that she is slowly working her way through. It is peaceful quiet, apart from the sounds of Skyhold outside, and after a while, she hears the sounds of his chisel and hammer chipping away at the wood stop.

“Something has been troubling me.”

She frowns. “What is it?”

“You said that if we hadn’t needed you, you would have stayed in the snow.”

Ah. That. She sighs, closing her book, and she clasps her hands together, her grip a little tight. She looks at him and waits for him to speak.

Blackwall turns around to look at her, putting his tools down, and he looks her in the eye. He looks like he doesn't want to actually ask the question, but that he needs to. “Do you still think that way?”

“Absolutely.” She doesn’t even pause to think about it. The word practically explodes out of her, as well as her explanation “I wake up thinking variations on that theme. I go to sleep thinking of it. Every moment I am not distracted, I am thinking about it.”

He looks a bit devastated at that. She does him the courtesy of not describing _how_ she thinks about it. How her magic seems to automatically cast Barrier every time she takes a jump higher than 10 ft (which puts a real halt in any plans there), how she wants to sometimes throw down her staff mid-fight, how sinking into the snow and letting herself give up felt so inviting. She does offer him a bit more of an explanation, though.

“Blackwall, it’s…hard. Living. I don’t know how to sort my feelings - how to keep the bad memories back or to even consider making peace with them. I don’t know if I will ever be able to. And the things that happened to me…a normal person would have difficulty dealing with it. How do you think  _ I’m  _ handling it?”

He leans forward, his clasped hands on his knees, his elbows on his thighs. “So you think about dying. Of killing yourself.”

“Yes.” It is a relief to say it, to have it articulated. It feels like something in her has been freed.

He is quiet for a moment. “I think like that sometimes too.”

If the two of them are good at anything together, it's empathy. She can see the exhaustion in his eyes, remembers how willing he is to die for a cause (and perhaps simply to die as well).

“Past weighing you down?”

He scoffs, “You have no idea.”

She doesn't. Something happened to or with him, that much she knows. But he is a secretive man. If she was any better at detecting lie from truth like Bull was, she could probably tell how honest he is at any given time. She has a feeling it's not much. 

Clarice offers anyway, “Try me.”

He stares at her for a moment before looking away. “I’d rather not. It’s…not pleasant.”

“Neither is anything that happened to me," she replies gently. "And it does me no pain to add yours to my memory."

“I am not ready.” That seems honest, and Clarice nods in understanding.

“That’s fair. Whenever you are ready to tell me, I am ready to listen."

They are quiet again, and Clarice breaks the silence softly, as she normally does. “Did you hear about what I was like when they found me?”

Blackwall tips his hand side to side. Right. Cassandra had talked to him about her magic. That was a start.

Clarice takes a moment to gather herself before speaking again. “They’d known I was Tranquil - so they knew that if I had killed the Divine, I had been told to do so, and that meant finding out who told me. But when I woke up, everything sunk in - all the loss, fear, pain, everything the Templars had done to me, every small act of kindness, every moment when I should have felt sick and run away. All at once.” She pauses, the memory hitting her again, and she takes a moment to let it flow over her before she continues. “I couldn’t stop screaming. Never mind being able to interrogate me, Cassandra and Leliana couldn’t get me to be quiet. I think a guard knocked me out. When I came to again, it was only because I’d spent so long following orders that I could even stand up and walk out the door.”

Blackwall doesn’t say a word. She's grateful. Clarice continues. “Solas was amazed that I didn’t get possessed the moment a demon came up to me, never mind that I was functioning. I could barely look at the Seeker, let alone anyone who wore armor. I hid instead of fighting, and I had no control of my magic. At all. It just...exploded when I was scared,” She scoffs, “which was all the time. Cassandra told me that they had rushed me out to try and get me to fix the Breach before I went insane, and when I didn’t, that I needed to be trained to deal with my magic and my emotions, fast, or I’d kill them all.”

His eyes widen. “She  _ said that to you? _ ” For a split second, it looks like Blackwall is going to go run over to the training dummies and yell at the Seeker. Something in her chest surges with warmth and she feels her mouth twitch with a smile. 

“I was Tranquil. I’m used to that sort of thing,” she shrugs. “And it was true. Solas is the only reason I am put together. He put in the time in the beginning, walked me through the Fade, taught me how to find control of my magic again, to keep demons out of my head. I owe that man more than I can say.”

Blackwall replies, “Do not put your own strength down. You had help, but you stood on your own feet and you are _still _standing.”

“Shakingly, but yes.” She can't doubt that.

He is quiet for a moment. "So when you said duty is the only thing holding you together..."

"Yes," she replies. "You said it yourself. Our lives are not our own anymore."

_ I live to serve this thing that I am leading. That is the only reason I am keeping myself alive. That and part of me is still scared of dying. _

She taps her fingers gently on the book still on her lap. "I'm sorry."

"Don't be. Thank you for telling me," his words are firm. "I needed to know."

And if in the next fight they get into, Blackwall jumps in front of her more often than not to shield her blows, she will take it as a sign of his hope for her survival. For the world...and maybe for herself.


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> She had to know. She sends a letter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This hurt me to write, but in a different way than the other chapters have.

“I want to find my family.” 

The reactions are understandable. Leliana isn’t shocked in the slightest (probably because she already knows where Clarice’s family is, and Clarice is definitely going to be asking her about that) and nods in complete understanding. Josephine isn’t surprised either, her eyes softening and adjusting her writing table to make a note of it. Clarice quietly appreciates that Josephine doesn’t do anything to go against it or make any comment. This is personal – and it will be done.  Cullen, of course, looks stunned, understanding, and like he’s about to let her down. His brain is still in the Circle. She has a rebuttal already planned before he opens his mouth. “I am not in the Circle anymore. There is no law against me finding out if my family is okay or if they’re even alive. I will not be going out to meet them directly, and while this may be a waste of Inquisition resources, I need to do this.”

Cullen frowns. “I understand your concern, but-"

Clarice stares into him, drawing on every ounce of presence she has – which isn’t much, but it makes an impact - and replying, “ There was a Blight and I don't know if they made it. I need to know and I _want _to know."

The want breaks his defenses and he nods. “Of course. I cannot fault you for wanting that.”

Leliana replies, “I have scouts near Redcliffe that can make the journey.”

Josephine adds, “And I believe we can approach Bann Teagan Guerrin for this as well, or even the King. King Alistair remembers you – I am certain it can be done.”

Cullen has nothing to add, but not needing his permission, Clarice nods. “Both. Please. I need to know that they're okay.”

* * *

The information comes back within a week. As soon as they have it, Leliana and Josephine bring her up to the War Room, with Cullen conspicuously absent. Clarice is trying desperately not to vibrate out of her skin, not wanting to break the silence for fear that there is bad news incoming. Josephine is the one to talk first. “Firstly, they are alive, my lady.”

Clarice sags, bracing her hands against the War Table with a sigh of relief.  _ Thank the Maker.  _ “They got away from the Blight?”

Leliana nods. “All of them. They left Honnleath during the Blight to stay in South Reach with friends, but they have since returned to their original farm, according to my reports.”

It isn’t just relief Clarice feels. There is some regret for not having done this sooner, for missing out on their lives…and that she didn’t send a message along with her questions. She knows why, though, and she presses on regardless. “What has changed?”

“You have two nieces now,” Leliana smiles. “Your brother’s daughters. He married a girl from the village - Susanna - and they had twins. One of them is an apostate, I believe, but after losing you, he has taken many precautions not to send them to the Circle.”

Clarice almost weeps.

“They were told that you were made Tranquil and the circumstances of it,” Josephine adds. “I found that in Circle reports. Whether they were told that you are no longer, I cannot say.”

She is quiet, tapping her gloved fingertips against the table. There is an opening here, but she has no idea if her emotions are clouding her judgement. “I need advice and Cullen is biased.”

“That is what we are here for, Clarice,” Leliana replies with a nod. “You want to ask what we think about you writing to them?”

She nods. “They are bound to hear at some point. I…I want them to know from me.”

Josephine taps her quill for a moment, thinking. “Family is important. I can understand you reaching out.”

“But you may open old wounds,” Leliana replies. “And if the message is found, you may make a weakness out of them. If Samson finds out that you have family...”

Clarice grimaces. The idea of them being hurt because of her is more than she can imagine, but...she has to try.

“…I’ll write a letter. Be as careful as you can when sending it.”

* * *

_ Mama, Papa, Geordi. _

_ I don’t think I’ve written or said those words out loud since I was sixteen. It feels strange to do so, but I need to send this message to you. I’d rather you find out the whole story from me than bits and pieces of rumour and gossip. _

_ It’s me. I’m okay, mostly. Papa, you told me that I was a survivor when I was taken away to the Circle, that I could get through anything if I kept my head down and kept my spirit alive. And I did. I survived the Circle falling, I survived the Blight, I survived Kirkwall, I survived the Conclave, and I survived Haven. And…well, I don’t understand quite what happened at the Conclave, but all I know is that whatever the brand severed has grown back. I can feel, I can dream, I can remember properly. It’s taken a while to get control back, and some things are fuzzy, but I’m here and I am still surviving. _

_ I also didn’t kill the Divine. That’s important. I was in the wrong place at the wrong time, or maybe I wasn't because I might have saved the world. I don't know what will happen. All I know is that I am no longer Tranquil and now they're calling me Inquisitor. _

_ I miss you terribly. I miss everything I have missed. I hear that I am an auntie now – congratulations on whoever had the brains to marry my big brother. I knew you’d get there before I did. I heard you had kids, and if any of them turned out like me, well, let me say that I think I’m in a position to do things to make sure she never  _ ever _ has to worry about living the same life I did. _

_ I understand if you don’t want to write me back. I am not the same girl who left your farm. It has been almost thirty years, and I’ve broken and put back together rather badly. But I wanted you to know that if you heard stories of a Ferelden Tranquil who can tear and seal rifts in the sky who leads an army of the faithful…know that she still loves apple cider that tastes like Leonard’s orchard, she still memorizes everything she reads, and that from what she can remember of love, she loves you very much. _

_ Your daughter, _

_ Clarice _

* * *

The letter comes back later than expected, which is understandable. When Leliana hands it to her, Clarice doesn't open it. She can't. The thought of what might be in it is almost petrifying. So she brings it to Blackwall, away from people in his barn. He looks at the letter with a strange expression when he hands it to her. “What is it?”

“My family,” she replies. “I…wrote to them. And they wrote back. I...can’t read it.”

Something in his face shifts, like he was expecting her to say something different, and he takes the letter. It sinks in after a moment, what she's asking without asking. “Are you sure? This must be private.”

“I have to know. And you won’t judge me, would you?”

“Of course not.”

She finds a spot on a hay bale, legs crossed under her, and he opens it up. He coughs, clears his throat, and begins to read.

_ “Starling, _ ”

Clarice chokes, putting a hand over her mouth as her eyes well up. Blackwall doesn’t pause, and just keeps going.

_ “Starling, if this is really you and not a sick joke, although the very formal messenger who brought the letter to us makes it less likely that it is, we are so happy to know that you’re alive and well. We were so scared for you during the Blight, and even though we did not know what you were doing or where you were, or if you were even alive, you were always in our prayers. Thank Andraste that you are alright. _

_ “Of course we want to talk to you. We want to see you too, but from what we have heard, you have a lot in your hands and it is a long journey to Honnleath. We will keep a bed ready for you, just in case. _

_ “Geordi sends his love (although he is more doubtful that it is you than we are, I am sure you understand), and the girls are already asking about you. They are twins, seven years old, Kaia and Elora. Elora is just like you in many ways.”  _ He pauses. “That’s been underlined.”

“Apostate,” Clarice gasps out.

“Ah.” He presses on. “ _ I have told them all the stories I know of you, but I only have so many. Maybe we’ll have more stories to tell of you when this is all over. Please write back to us if you have the time. I imagine you have seen a lot. You do not have to tell us everything – Andraste knows that the horrors of Kirkwall were just the tip of the iceberg, never mind you having to willingly spend time in Orlais – but we would love to hear what you have to say. _

_ “Keep on flying, little starling, my Clarice. We love you so much, and we would love the chance to get to know you again. _

_ “Love, your Mama and Papa.” _

Clarice is doubled over on the bale, her knees up to her chest as she sobs into her hands. Blackwall doesn’t approach her, although she hears the sound of paper folding and the letter placed beside her. “Take your time, lass,” he says softly.

“They still…” she manages.

“They may not know you now, but you’re their daughter,” Blackwall replies. “From the sounds of it, they’d never stop loving you.”

She does her best not to get tear stains on the paper as she picks it up and gets to her feet, wiping her eyes. “Thank you.”

He bows. “My pleasure. I imagine you have some letters to write.”

_ Oh, do I.  _


	13. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> No one comes to the tavern at this time. It’s the perfect time to drink alone.
> 
> Except he’s not alone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have a playlist for Clarice. This is the very first song on it - specifically [Evan Rachel Wood’s version](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ZuvPeSICYwk) from Across the Universe. I imagine Clarice’s singing voice to be very similar to ERW’s in this situation.

It’s dark outside and the moons are bright overhead. It’s well past the witching hour and last call - the time that everyone should either be drunk or already asleep. This means, of course, that it’s the perfect time to drink alone.

Blackwall sits at the bar, a tankard in front of him, and he nurses it in silence, brooding. Corff has gotten used to him showing up this late and leaves the door slightly unlocked, a couple tankards of his preferred ale on the counter. Blackwall knows where to leave his coin to make sure the man is paid properly, plus a little extra for this privilege of privacy. It’s necessary. It gives him time to think and turn things over in his head. 

Like the Inquisitor.

Maker’s breath, he doesn’t know what he was thinking, offering her an explanation. What is he going to say?  _ Sorry to drag you out all this way, but this is where Warden Blackwall died saving my life and I took his name to hide from my sins and make sure that a good man was still in some way a part of this world, I’ve been lying to you this whole time, you of all people who trusted me to be honest and steady?  _ What was he even  **thinking** _ ? _

He wants to be...honest with her. It’s a horrifying thought. He hasn’t been honest in so long that even the consideration of it makes his skin crawl. It is a testament to how much she means to him that he is even considering it. Even so, he can’t imagine what she’ll think of him. Clarice doesn’t hold grudges, apart from those that have caused trauma in her life, but...she’ll hate him. She has to. 

In the silence of the tavern, there is a hum. It’s the beginning of a soft melody, and he looks around trying to find it.

Then he looks up.

There is the Inquisitor, sitting on a rafter two floors up. She’s by the window, one leg straight, the other dangling. Her head is tipped back to rest against the wood, and although he can’t see her properly in the dark, her entire posture is melancholic. A mug rests in her hands, although he has no idea what is in it. Knowing her, it’s cider or hot cocoa. Clarice doesn’t like to drink, doesn’t like how it makes her lose control - especially after the maraas-lok incident that made her swear off the stuff for good.

He has no idea when she came in. He has no idea if she knows he is there. She is still humming a tune that he doesn’t recognize.

Then there is a soft voice, high and trembling, filling the tavern.

_ “Blackbird singing in the dead of night,” _

Her voice echoes and Blackwall catches his breath as she lets the last word hang for a moment. By some luck, she doesn’t look down at him. She just keeps going.

_ “Take these broken wings and learn to fly _

_ All your life _

_ You were only waiting for this moment to arise.” _

Her voice is so poignant. The words hurt and he feels his heart twist with each one. The tavern is dark, apart from a couple of lanterns, but even in the darkness, her brand somehow looks brighter. He remembers discussions of her fear. Her pain. His tankard is forgotten.

_ “Blackbird singing in the dead of night _

_ Take these sunken eyes and learn to see _

_ All your life _

_ You were only waiting for this moment to be free.” _

Her hand reaches up to touch the window frame, pale fingers dragging along the wood. 

_ Blackbird fly, blackbird fly _

_ Into the light of a dark black night.” _

Is she broken? She sees herself as broken, he can tell that much, but he isn’t sure if she truly is. If she was before, she is getting better. He sees it every day. Even when she takes two steps forward and one step backward, she is still trudging forward. 

_ “Blackbird singing in the dead of night _

_ Take these broken wings and learn to fly _

_ All your life _

_ You were only waiting for this moment to arise, _

_ You were only waiting for this moment to arise…” _

She sighs, leaving it unfinished. Blackwall thinks for a moment, trying to decide if it would be too much for him too. After a few beats more, he finally breaks the silence, hoping that he guesses the melody right.

_ “You were only waiting for this moment to arise.” _

To her credit, she startles, but she stays both on the beam and keeps her mug in her hands. She leans down to look at him, her eyes wide, and he keeps his head tilted up to look at her. He thinks her cheeks go blotchy with a blush. His heart tugs in his chest. 

They very obviously don’t say anything, neither sure what to say in this emotional moment. He can’t stop thinking over the words of the song. She keeps staring at him, eyes wide, as if she’s waiting for him to say something to make her feel bad.

He decides to just settle back with his tankard. He raises it to her. Her eyes light up, her shoulders falling and relaxing, and she raises her mug to him. They leave each other to their thinking and drinks. Eventually, he gets up to go get a few hours of rest, leaving his money under a cup. She hops down from the beam, landing on a table before stepping onto the floor. She leaves coin as well. They walk out of the tavern together in silence before parting ways - her to go to her quarters and him to the barn. 

Him pretending a Warden. Her pretending to be a competent Inquisitor.

_ We were only waiting for this moment to arise. _


	14. Chapter 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A rewrite of the first big romance scene, after finding the ruin.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I shouldn't resist shoving this out. I love this idea.
> 
> And for those requiring images, [here](https://imgur.com/a/i48btNp) and [here.](https://imgur.com/a/ZVAreRE)

Clarice comes into her room, and there is Blackwall standing by her balcony, waiting for her. She should be much more anxious that there is someone in her room, that her private space has been intruded on, but honestly, if she was okay with anyone invading her space, it was Blackwall. From the looks of it, he hasn’t been snooping. He is leaning against the open doors, his face troubled, his hands laced over his stomach in what she recognizes as a gesture to protect himself. Whatever he is here for, it certainly isn’t to fully invade her privacy. He wants to talk to her.

And whatever he wants to talk about, he isn’t comfortable.

“Sorry for coming without warning,” he replies, looking up at her.

She considers his apology for a moment, debating her feelings, and ultimately settles on a nod, her mouth turning up slightly.

“Apology accepted, Blackwall,” she replies, her expression slightly fond as she puts her book down. “You are welcome here. Trespassing is forgiven.”

He seems to twitch at the word ‘forgiven’, but he puts that aside and straightens, walking closer to her.

“I wanted to thank you for accompanying me to that ruin,” he begins, unlacing his hands and raising them in little aborted movements before keeping them close to his sides. “I wanted to-”

He cuts himself off and sighs.

“I just had to see you.”

_ Oh _.

He stops in front of her, consciously keeping space between them. She looks up at him, her eyes wide, and she can tell with the limited experience that she has that he is keeping himself still. Obviously he remembers their talks about her personal space and how she needs people to ask permission before they do. Either way, her clasped hands stay loose regardless, ready to shove him back if he asks too much.

“May I take your hand?” He asks, his voice so soft that she can barely hear it.

She nods slowly, unlacing her hands. His gloved hand takes hers, and he raises it, gently pressing his mouth to her knuckles.

A few thoughts run through her head.

_ His beard tickles. _

_ He didn’t ask to kiss me. But that’s okay. It’s…somehow okay. _

_ This is the gentlest anyone has touched me since I was in Honnleath. Except from him, of course. _

And, of course, the crowning thought of –

_ Sweet Maker, if I was normal, I think he might have kissed me. _

When his mouth draws away, she turns her hand over, slides a palm over a bearded cheek. He leans into it almost subconsciously, like a cat seeing attention, but when he realizes what he is doing, what he did, he leans away, takes a step back.

“No. This is wrong. I shouldn’t be here.”

It feels like a knife in the chest. The first openly affectionate touch she has made in years, and he shoots it away. It hurts, and it shows on her face. But he looks hurt too, like he is making a mistake.

_ He thinks he doesn’t deserve this. _

“What’s the problem?” She asks, no humour in it, but an honest question regardless. “You asked permission. I gave it.”

Even in whatever mood he is in, he recognizes the gesture for what it is, she can tell that, and it tugs his face into a frown even more. “I’m not what you want. I could never be what you deserve.” 

_ Is it the Wardens? The obligation he has to fulfill? _

_ …no. He hates himself too much. _

“You’re wrong. You’re a good man,” she replies, voice steady.

“Am I?”

_ Such a loaded question _.

“I see it,” she replies carefully. “The Wardens took you. That means they knew there was something good in you too.”

“All I am, I gave to the Wardens. There’s nothing I can offer you,” his voice is heavy, dark, and it hurts her.

_ I am not put together enough for this. It sounds like a proposal. _

“Blackwall,” she shakes her head, enough of a smile tugging at her lips that he looks unsettled. “I am fond of you. And perhaps, when I am a little more…well, me, I might return your affection properly. But all I need now is a friend, and you’ve offered me that already. A good ear, a shoulder to lean on, a shield to protect me, and a willingness to let me grow back into something real, to let me bounce my thoughts and feelings off you. I would ask for nothing more now.”

_ Is this appropriate? Maybe not, but I have a feeling _.

She steps forward, closing the gap he made, and raises her hand slightly. “May I?”

He nods, words caught in his throat, and she returns her hand to its place, cupping his cheek. He leans into it, a sigh escaping him, and her fingers brush his wiry beard.

“You make existing suck less,” she tells him firmly. “I know that. You make me feel safe. I know that too. As for contact, well, I will be comfortable with your touch one day. Maybe even enough for a hug.”

That is the most she can promise, and judging by the way his eyes snap to hers, he knows the significance of that. But she is not done.

“You want to throw what we have away, you have to pry it from my cold dead hands.”

It’s a dry joke, and he laughs raggedly, hands jolting by his sides like he wants to pull her close. She appreciates that he doesn’t.

“You may regret that, my lady,” he tells her gently.

One scarred fingertip traces the top of his cheekbone. His eyes close, a breath slowly shaking his chest. She smooths a bit of hair back, tucks it behind his ear, pets the soft skin of it before patting his cheek. 

“Do you regret that?”

He looks like he wants to kiss her. Instead, he raises a hand and gently covers hers, running a thumb over scarred knuckles.

“No.”

“Good,”

After that, she slowly lowers her hand and gestures to the sofa.

“Sit with me? I found a book on griffins in the library.”

He nods, cheeks a bit pink. “Aye. I’d like that.”

They take their places on the sofa, and Clarice makes the concession of touching her knee against his. He looks like a teenage boy, and she smiles a little more, opening the book to the story that had made her think of him.

_ “They came on gilded wing, their cries filling the air like thunder…” _


	15. Chapter 15

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Let's give them something to talk about, how about us?_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This idea kept prodding at me. I had to let it flow.

For once, it’s not Varric or Leliana with the gossip. It’s Josephine at the interlude, a cup of tea partway to her lips, who says softly, “Blackwall kissed the Herald.”

Leliana freezes for a moment, teacup mid way to her mouth. Cullen chokes on a cookie. Josephine just...keeps drinking her tea.

“No,” Leliana says, half horrified. "Really?"

“Well, on the hand,” Josephine clarifies.

Cullen lets out a breath. “I was going to say, I thought Blackwall had more sense than that. Or Clarice had more boundaries.”

“How did you hear?” Leliana follows up.

“She came to see me afterward for a chat. She asked me for advice," Josephine smiles. "She was blushing something fierce, kept rubbing the spot on her hand."

“And what did you say?” Cullen leans forward in his chair.

Josephine smiles. “I said it was up to her, but that if she wanted to push her boundaries a bit more with him, I’m sure he wouldn’t mind the same.”

Cullen frowns. "I am having a chat with him. For her sake."

* * *

“YOU DID WHAT?”

Sera’s shout echoes through the Herald’s Rest, and Bull and the Chargers immediately make their way as quietly as possible up the stairs to listen at Sera’s door. They can’t make out Blackwall’s words, but Sera is much louder.

“You kissed Mousey’s hand?” She laughs. “You sop.”

Krem’s eyebrows nearly shoot off his head. He stands on a chair to lean around, while Rocky helps stabilize him.

“And of course she didn’t push you off. She likes you too, you twat. Well, in her mousey way.”

Blackwall seems to ask a question. They hear the rise of his voice at the end. 

“What do I m-. It’s like this. She spends more time around you than anyone else. She smiles at you. She  _ trusts you,  _ which, by the way, if you break that trust, I’ll kill you myself. And she, which is probably the soppiest thing of them all,  _ stays up late at night and tells you stories about the stars.” _

Bull makes a faint hum of approval. Rocky shushes him.

“So yeah, she likes you too. Just getting used to being a person again. Mean, I’m sure she’s told you all this. What did she say?”

Blackwall says something. Skinner has her ear to the crack so she can hear it the best and quietly relays it to them. “She said she is fond of him, that she needs to heal before anything more happens between them, and that what she needs most is a good friend, what he’s already been to her.”

Grim makes an affirmative noise, but it sounds somehow softer. The romance is definitely catching up to them.

“Then that’s what you do, you daft tit,” Sera says. “Be her friend. You can still be a soppy bastard and think she’s gorgeous and all things lovely.”

More muttering. Then there is the sound of her trying to hit him.

“Don’t let her hear you say that.”

“What’s going on?”

Clarice has appeared over Grim’s shoulder and it takes the Chargers every ounce of strength not to jump. Bull is the one grins. “They’re talking about you, Boss. And a kiss.”

Her cheeks go red.

“I...need Sera for something. Do I-”

“YOU ARE GOOD ENOUGH FOR HER, YOU DAFT TIT.”

Clarice goes even redder.

“Come back later, boss. We want the gossip.”

She turns on her heel and practically runs out of the tavern, vaulting the railing. There is no change of sound inside the room as Sera proceeds to go on a short rant about Blackwall’s low self-esteem and good qualities. The Chargers muffle their laughter in their hands and each other’s shoulders.

* * *

"Would you have guessed at such a pairing?"

Clarice takes note of the idle chatter of the nobles in Skyhold's main hall as she jogs through the main hall. It's usually gossip, so she makes sure to file it away and if there is anything interesting, she passes it on to Leliana. As such, the slightly scandalized tone makes her slow, ready to listen.

"No, but I understand. Duty and devotion are powerful. The Warden ideal, of course."

Clarice's ears and cheeks go blotchy red with a blush. They're...talking about her.

"Shhh, ears." The nobles are looking at her, slightly amused expressions on her face.

She turns on her heel and runs down to the stables. Blackwall pauses in his work to look at her embarrassed face. 

"Are you alright, my lady?"

"...people are talking," She can't quite get the full sentiment out.

He snorts. "They do little else. What is the topic of gossip today?"

"Us."

He freezes and slowly puts down his chisel, turning to look at her. Clarice is still very, very red. He is slowly going red as well.

"Oh," he is quiet for a moment. "How do they know?"

"I have _no idea,"_ Clarice hisses. "Maybe from Leliana. Or Sera talking to you in the tavern. Or the Chargers eavesdropping during that conversation. Or from something else, I don't know."

Blackwall is somehow redder than she is. "Oh."

It takes her a moment to compose herself, her skin slowly returning to its usual pale. Then she smiles, slight and warm. "At least they're supportive?" He reddens even more. Her smile grows and she laughs softly. "Two sovereigns says that someone gives you the shovel talk by the end of the day."

"I'm not taking that bet."


	16. Chapter 16

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Blackwall is in love.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aka the sappiest thing I have ever written.

Now that Blackwall realizes how much he likes Clarice, he finds himself staring at her at every chance he gets. He doesn’t quite get to the point of writing down a list of everything that he likes about her, but he is definitely forming a list in his mind.

Her hands. 

Clarice’s hands are not pretty by any stretch of the imagination. When Varric talks about the damage red lyrium can do, she looks down at the ragged scars that run through her skin. Her fingertips are roughened to the point that she has lost some of the sensitivity in them, and ragged red scars run up her fingers, twisting over the bones and over her knuckles. There are other scars from enchanting, burns and scrapes and even some ragged knuckles from when a heavy pot fell on her hand and broke it. She has salve for them that she is constantly rubbing on them, especially in cold places, and she wears gloves when around people to try and hide them. Never mind the Anchor being apparently a bit uncomfortable.

But…she is still supremely delicate with them. She turns the pages of books new and old with care and cuts herbs in the right way to keep them alive for future growth. Her magic flows along them in golden sparks, letting little shows of force fly out as her way of keeping control over her new magic. She pets animals with love, aims with precision, touches him with care and fondness. Her touch says all the things her words can’t.

He hopes that when she touches him, she means at least gentle things.

Her eyes.

Her hair. Since coming to Skyhold, she’s decided to let it grow out. Taking inspiration from the Chargers, her hair is slowly growing out to look like Krem’s. Krem helps her shave the sides, talks to her about how to make it look fancy, if that’s what she wants. When they’re gone for a long time, the fringe gets a bit long and dangles over her forehead, just over the scar. In her focused moments, all she does is blow up in a huff, trying to send the hair back to its proper place. It reminds him of when he was little and his brother made a joke about quails.

His fingers itch to tuck it behind her ear.

Her smile.

It’s a rare thing. Clarice told him once that she had almost forgotten how to smile, and the muscles in her face found it uncomfortable. She thinks it looks unnatural, strained, a mockery of a thing at odds with the brand on her forehead. But it is a rare and beautiful thing when she smiles, and he does all he can to draw all of them out: the little ghosts of smiles, tugging at the side of her mouth and lighting up her eyes; the laughing smiles, usually accompanied by a soft snicker; the smiles that don’t look quite right but show she’s still trying to show her joy; and the rare grins when something has gone completely right. They’re like flowers blooming on her face, and each one makes his heart thump just a little more.

He especially loves the little ones that light up her eyes, soft and gentle, when it’s just the two of them.

Her focus.

Cullen had told him once that in the Circles, Clarice had lived in the library, even before she became Tranquil. It is one of her comforting places. There is a little spot in the corner by a window - not Dorian’s corner, even though he would gladly let her sit there if asked - where she sits with a quilt, a mug of tea or cider, and whatever heavy book she is slowly combing through. She still startles easily, but when she is reading, anyone with eyes can tell that she is enraptured. She remembers every detail, can break down the content into something that even Blackwall can understand. 

When she’s not reading, her focus is still palpable. She works through every astrarium with skill and patience. She gets Varric to teach her how to pick a lock in case she needs to, and when she practices on chests and doors out in the Dales, she is quicker every time. Her focus is a weight when she turns it on people, trying to work out what they really mean, what they are feeling. She gets better at everything she applies that focus to, one step at a time.

He is excited and terrified when that focus is turned on him. He wonders what she sees and learns about him each time.

Her capacity to forgive.

It takes until they get to Skyhold for Clarice to be able to be in a room alone with Cullen. There has been quite a lot of friction between them, with Cullen trying to unlearn how Tranquil are treated in the Circle and Clarice trying to work through the nearly insurmountable amount of trauma she has relating to Templars. But, she makes time to sit with Cullen and talk. No one knows what was discussed in there - the door was shut and Leliana was on guard duty - but whatever it was, the two of them seem to be good now. Clarice has a capacity for mercy that she shouldn’t. The world has been so unkind to her, but it seems to have her forgiveness anyway.

He doesn’t deserve it, but oh Maker, does he want it.

The way she acts around him.

Clarice said once that Wardens were the only armour that made her feel safe. He feels beyond unworthy of that sentiment - he will tell her, someday, he will tell her - but that doesn’t stop him from soaking up her differential treatment like a sponge. Every conversation, every little moment he steals from all of the countless things that weigh on her time, every smile, every touch. Every little memory that she shares with him, every honest tidbit that he can bring himself to share with her. All of those are beyond precious to him. As much as he hates that he is stealing her time, as much as he knows that he is not good for her in any way, he knows that he can’t stop himself. He loves it. He…

No. He can’t even think it. He doesn’t deserve it. She’s certainly not ready to handle that, never mind from him. She’s told him as much, even if she is fond of him too.

He likes her from a distance, and that is all it can be.


	17. Chapter 17

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Fade. And a quiet revelation.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have had the Nightmare Demon's dialogue planned for _months._ And now I finally get to use it!

Blackwall doesn’t like the Fade. It feels wrong for him to be here, tugging at him like walking through spiderwebs. The ground feels wrong under his feet, the air feels wrong as he breathes, his eyes cannot focus on anything around him apart from the people beside him. He is neither mage nor spirit. This is...not his place. 

Sera is doing even worse than he is. The very idea of being in the Fade, in the world of magic, is scaring the daylights out of her. The stream of expletives flowing from her doesn’t make him blush, not even close, but it’s the most accurate assessment of this mess that he can think of.

Clarice is definitely not doing well either. In fact, she looks more on edge than Sera. Her fingers are white knuckling her staff, she seems to be murmuring a prayer, and if she had any less composure, she’d be shaking like a leaf. If he didn’t think she’d slap his hand away, he would take hers, trying to offer her some strength. That being said, he steps forward and whispers the one thing that he can think of to make her feel better.

“If this mess makes you Tranquil again, I’ll kill you myself. I promise.”

Something in her loosens and she gives him a nod. Her grip does not weaken on her staff, not in the slightest, but she looks sharper. Her greatest worry is at rest. Now, she can attend to the next one. Her eyes flick up to the ‘sky’, or whatever it is, and scan it for a moment before she points to the rift in the distance. “There. That’s where we need to go. The sooner we get out of here, the better.”

No one in the group disagrees. Not in the slightest.

* * *

Another thing they can agree on - no one likes the Nightmare. Its voice is low and smooth, the elocution perfect, and every word a damned low blow.

"I see you, Inquisitor,” it purrs. “You've put yourself back together, but what are you without Tranquility? You barely remember who you were before. How can you know who you are now?"

Thom turns to look at her. Clarice is shaking, eyes darting around at the sky, trying to find the source of the voice.

"You're hanging on by a thread, little mage. You're scared of the line you walk. One wrong step, and you're an abomination, or made Tranquil again. Or dead. And we both know which you'd rather."

The entire party is now torn between staring at her and visibly looking away. Thom knows he can’t help but stare, his eyes wide. He knew that she wanted to die – she’d told him as much – but to hear it worded so plainly is still a shock. She is clearly holding her breath, mouth pulled tight. He steps forward, not quite touching but offering the comfort of closeness. She takes a shaky inhale, her shoulders falling with the exhale, and looks at him. He projects all the confidence he doesn’t quite feel and she breathes again, calm creeping into her.

"Do they know, little mage? I know you. I know how deep your pain runs. I know how it fills every inch of you, and how afraid you are of life. Do they know how unafraid you are of dying? How much you would welcome it? I can help you with that."

With that, Clarice’s shoulders straighten and her spine goes taut. From this angle, he sees the intensity in her, the focus and drive. She smiles – no, not quite a smile, more a snarl with bared teeth – and replies, “Not today. And you don’t get the honour.”

Patronizing laughter rumbles over their heads and Clarice takes a step forward, making her way further down the path. When no one immediately follows, she turns back to look at them. Her eyes flash like steel and her body is iron. There is strength in her, and Thom is so proud of her that he could burst.

“We can talk about this later, but I suddenly feel a very strong urge to see if nightmares can be crushed.”

“Perhaps I should be afraid, facing the most powerful members of the Inquisition,” it purrs again. They all brace themselves.

“Ah, there's nothing like a Grey Warden. And you are _ nothing _like a Grey Warden.”

Everything in him stiffens. That is a low blow and that..._ thing _knows it. It knows the lie that he breathes with every word. No one is looking at him – they are been kind enough not to draw attention to each other’s weaknesses, especially after it aired Clarice’s – but Clarice slows to stand near him. Her elbow touches his, and when he briefly casts his eyes over to her, she looks confident. Steady. He hates lying to her – he will tell her the truth soon – but her faith in him, in the armour he wears, gives him the courage to snap back.

“I’ll show you a Warden’s strength, beast.”

* * *

Adamant is silent in the aftermath. No one wants to talk or acknowledge what was lost. Men, women, trust...it all feels too much. Blackwall is sitting off to the side, staring into space when a runner tells him that Clarice wants to talk. He goes to her tent, and she’s dressed down from her armour. She’s in plain clothes, blood and sludge still in her short hair, and a slightly haunted expression on her face. She looks up at him, and he has a feeling that she sees the same on him.

He sits down next to her at her invitation and sighs. “I owe you an explanation.”

“No, you don’t.”

His eyes whip over to her and she shrugs. “You don’t owe me anything. None of us do. People will ask me about it, I know, but I will do them the courtesy they will not give me with my fears.”

He winces. “I’m sorry.”

“I’m sorry too.”

There is silence. Eventually, she murmurs, “I’ll still call you Blackwall. For consistency's sake.”

He thinks his heart has stopped. “What?”

She looks at him, no suspicion in her face, but certainty. Her voice is soft, a whisper, and part of him is beyond grateful for that courtesy. “I had a hunch before all this. And as horrible as that thing was, it told the truth about each of us.”

She doesn’t say it out loud, but he doesn’t think he could stand it if she said it aloud. He still hears it in his head anyway, in his voice. _ You’re a fraud. You’re not a Warden. _ His voice is shaky when he asks, “What gave me away?”

“Wardens can sense other Wardens,” she says softly. “It was harder with the False Calling, but Stroud-"

She pauses for a moment at the name, pain flitting across her face. That decision had cost her. He could feel it. Still, he doesn't interrupt and waits until she starts up again. "He could tell up close that there was something off about you. That, you not acknowledging what you heard in the Calling, and some other knowledge of the Wardens. He and I talked and put it together.”

“And you’re still talking to me?” That is the startling part. “You said you trusted the armor, the Wardens, and I’m-“

_ Not. _

“I am a bit angry about that,” he can hear the terseness in her voice and it cuts him. “And some time, when we haven’t just walked out of the Fade, I would love to hear more. But for now, while the armor is what made me trust you at first, it is not the armor that keeps you by my side now. I trust _ you. _”

That is…devastating. He starts to get to his feet, recoiling with the need to flee. “You shouldn’t.”

“You don’t get to decide that for me,” her voice is sharper, although still quiet. It holds him in place. “I don’t know who you were before you came into contact with the Wardens, other than what you’ve told me. All I know is that you have kept me safe, respected my boundaries, reminded me what it’s like to be human again. You are an excellent fighter and a good friend. I trust that. When you are ready to tell me who you were, then that decision may change, but for now, you are my friend and I would have you still fight beside me, if that is what you want.”

“I do,” he replies quietly. “More than anything. I swear it.”

He has never been more truthful in his life. She smiles a little. “I believe you.” She reaches over after a moment, hand stopping in front of his. “May I?”

He offers his shaking one. Her fingers curl in his, squeezing them, and his breath catches in his throat. She looks at him, steel eyes on him, and his heart stops for a moment in his chest. “Blackwall. Whoever you were before you met the Wardens, before you joined the Inquisition, isn’t the man I know. Or perhaps you are and I have good taste,” her mouth twitches at the joke and he lets out an aborted barking laugh before she continues again, “but you make me feel safe. Please don’t be afraid of me and what I think of you. It’s who you are now that I’m concerned about, and if it’s purpose you’re looking for, I think you just found it.”

He smiles, looking not out the tent wall at the camp that lays beyond, but at the woman in front of him. 

_ I certainly have. And I will do everything I can to earn it. _


	18. Chapter 18

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A backstory dump and hunting a blood mage. Trauma ahead.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A.N.: Blackwall’s speech on justice is almost word for word from a conversation with dreaminglestrade about this chapter. It was so good that I had to memorialize it.  
...and yes, there is a very heavy Flash reference here. Leave me be.

Saving Cole had been a bit of a mess. Clarice stumbles into Blackwall’s barn afterward and takes a seat on the hay bales, face in her hands. Blackwall didn’t claim to fully understand what she’d done - something about hearing Cole’s trauma and having to decide how to make sure he wouldn’t be bound - but he’d approved of her decision to let him be more human. She’d certainly wanted to be, even if it was difficult for her. She sits in silence, her shoulders shaking a little with some repressed emotion that he couldn’t hear, and he just focuses on chipping away more and more at his wooden griffin toy.

He’ll get to sanding it soon. Just a few more finishing touches…

“He’s still alive, you know.”

Blackwall looks over from the woodworking table, pausing in his chiseling. “Who?”

“The man who got me made Tranquil.”

He is so glad he hadn’t started working again. He might have taken off a finger with that. Either way, he freezes, his blood running cold in his veins.

She keeps going, somehow not noticing, “Cole got me thinking about it. The Templar that hurt him was still alive out there. As is the man that hurt me. Well...not the Templar who conducted the rite. He definitely got killed by Uldred - I remember that. How he screamed.”

There is a slight pause. Her voice is blank. Blackwall tries not to imagine all of the things that Clarice was unable not to hear. 

She continues after a breath, “But the blood mage responsible for framing me. He’s still alive.”

He inhales slowly through his nose, trying to calm down the rage bubbling in him, and puts down the tools. “You were framed?”

She blinks and realizes (as he is very loudly not saying) that she’s never talked about how she became Tranquil. She nods slowly. “Yes, I was. By the time they worked out I was, it was too late.”

He doesn’t ask. He won’t ask. She has done him the courtesy of not pushing him. He will do the same for her. But he does ask, “Do you want to find him? You can with the Inquisition. No one would blame you.”

She is quiet, considering. Then there is a firm set to her face.

“Yes. I do.”

* * *

It turns out he’s in Crestwood. A few chats with the locals, some scouting around Caer Bronach, and Eobard Thorne’s hut is circled on a map for Clarice to find. They tell no one else of the intent of the trip - Blackwall is fairly certain that Cullen and Solas can guess, and Bull seems to know that it’s not gathering herbs - but they march out to Crestwood together. 

Blackwall knocks on the door first. Clarice stands behind him, hands at the ready. The door opens to reveal a slimy looking man, blonde hair and grey eyes. His hair is greasy, smoothed back with a hand, and his beady eyes peer into Blackwall.

Blackwall has never been more thankful that he’s taller than Clarice. She hides behind him, waiting for the right moment.

“Yes? How can I help you?” The mage sneers. 

“Might you be Mr. Thorne?” Blackwall feigns confusion.

“Who is asking?”

Suddenly he is thrown back across the hut, white force magic slamming him to the wall and pinning him to it. Clarice stalks around Blackwall, hand outstretched, and for the brief moment that Blackwall can see her face, he sees restrained cold fury.

“Hello, Eobard,” she says firmly. “Long time, no see.”

His eyes go wide at her. “No. No, it can’t be. You were-“ 

“Made Tranquil. I know. I was there,” her voice is sharp, angry, bitter. “That’s what happens when you’re accused of blood magic and no one believes you when you say you’re not.”

He tries to move and she slams him harder against the wall. “You have no idea what they did to me!”  _ Slam _ . “What the fucking Templars put me through!”  _ Slam. “ _ And all because I wouldn’t SLEEP WITH YOU!”

She throws him across the room, crashing into furniture like a ragdoll. Blackwall had no idea what had happened, but now that he is hearing all of this, he has not a single bit of sympathy. Eobard rolls on the floor, already bruising, and calls out to Blackwall, “Help me!”

Blackwall shuts the door behind him, barring it with his body. “Maker help you, you bastard, because I certainly won’t.”

Clarice stands over him, magic coating her hands. Eobard reaches in his robes for a knife.

“A friend of mine said said I should make you Tranquil,” Clarice says calmly. 

_ Cullen.  _

“But I refuse to let anyone else suffer the same fate, no matter how awful they were” she kicks the knife away from him. “You destroyed me. You ruined me. I will never be the same person I was because of you.”

“You thought you were better than all of us! Better than me. You should have appreciated my offer,” Eobard snarls at her. “You spat in my face, kicked me in my stones, and ran!”

She barks a cold laugh. “I would do it again. I was sixteen. You were twenty nine. You were an older man hitting on me. What did you think I would do?”

There is no mercy in her. He scrambles for the knife and she shoves him back to the ground, magic pressing out at the ends of her hands. “You  _ broke me, _ ” her voice is cold and vicious, and Blackwall feels a shiver run down his spine. “You gave me a fate worse than death because I  _ turned you down.  _ How do you sleep at night? How did you live with that?”

Eobard doesn’t say anything, his gaze torn between smugness and fear. What he does is spit out blood from his mouth, presumably from biting his tongue, and wiggle his fingers. Blackwall draws his sword, swearing as blood waves through the air and a demon wrenches its way through. But Clarice doesn’t flinch. No. She raises her other hand, the green of the Anchor crackling around her, and 

opens 

a rift 

in this man’s living room. 

Eobard stares in horror as the demon he has summoned is promptly wrenched back into the Veil. The sound of the Fade rips through the hut and, framed in the green light, is Inquisitor Rivers, ready to bring her Judgement.

Well, she certainly earns points for drama.

Clarice’s face goes stony and she shifts her hands, stretching one back towards Blackwall. He quietly hands her his sword, and she spins it carefully in her hand. Clearly, she has no idea how to hold it, but she does know Cullen’s rule of which end is the dangerous one.

“Clarice, I’m sorry,  _ please,  _ you know what it was like there, you know-”

He is slammed back against the floor and Clarice steps forward, both hands clasping around the hilt. With a roar greater than what Blackwall thought that small body could produce, she drops down to one knee beside him and slams the sword straight into his chest. The blade glows white, force magic guiding it hard and true. It is an ugly hit, ribs crunching and the wood floorboards creaking under its force, and definitely not precise. Sensing that, she wrenches the sword out and swings it once more, slicing the man’s throat before he can do anything else. Eobard coughs, eyes wide, and then the eyes go blank, his head rolling to the side. 

There is blood across her face and clothes, an arterial spray painting her red with fury. She pants, staring at the work in front of her, and sinks to both knees, sword clattering to the floor. 

Blackwall comes up and kneels beside her, placing a hand on her shoulder. “You got him.”

She gasps for breath, staring at the blood pouring out on the floorboards in front of her, soaking into the wood, and she lets out a sob, her hands shaking. He squeezes her shoulder again, and her head falls forward.

“He thought I  _ deserved it, _ ” she sobs out, her fingers curling into fists on her knees. She slams one fist against the ground and magic ripples out from it, rocking the floorboards. 

“No one deserves that,” Blackwall murmurs. He has no idea what happened in Circles to make Tranquility seem like an easy way to deal with people you don't like - that would be something to ask Cassandra about - but this was something else. 

It takes her a moment to breathe enough for words, and then she looks at Blackwall. “They were looking for him, for whoever was using blood magic. He used a spell to keep me asleep, cut my arms and healed them to look like fresh scars,” she tells him. “Then he attacked a Templar near my dormitory and left just enough evidence to lead to me. Even got people in my quarters to say the truth - that they’d seen the door open and shut and someone moving to and from my bed.”

Bile rises in his throat. 

“I begged them not to. I told them I hadn’t done it. I spent all my time in the library - I wouldn’t jeopardize that, I needed to be able to go to the library to feel sane,” her voice rises in pitch, little gasps of hysteria breaking up the words. “The Knight Commander said that it was a shame, that I had been such a good example, and now I had to be  _ made _ an example. The First Enchanter  _ tried  _ but nothing worked. And then Eobard destroyed his phylactery and RAN while I was being made Tranquil, so when I was unable to lie and could tell them I was framed, he wouldn’t be found!”

What can he say to that?

“He deserved so much worse.” She is shaking, chest heaving, and she looks at him with wide wet eyes. “So why do I feel so  _ awful? _ ”

His heart breaks and he offers a hand to her. She takes it, squeezing it tight, and he says the truth. “Because you are better than he was. He didn’t feel guilty about what he did to you, because he wasn’t a good person. You are, and so you do.”

She squeezes harder, drawing in a shaking breath, and then lets go suddenly, scrambling for the door. He hears the sound of retching outside and gets to his feet, dragging a sheet over the body. As he walks outside, Clarice is kneeling by a bush, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand. Her hand is bloody too, which doesn’t help much. He unclasps his cloak and drapes it around her shoulders, and she buries her face in the fur collar. 

“There are good people and bad people, good acts and bad. It’s a balance. We have to remember that. Justice can be done in many different ways, and as long as we retain who we are, our conscience and humanity, and remember the pain that we inflict and was inflicted upon us, we can keep moving.”

It takes a while - he doesn’t count how long - until her breathing calms down. Finally, she gets to her feet, wiping her hands on her robes as she clasps the cloak around her.

“You feel better?” He asks softly.

Her face is puffy, there is a speck of something by the corner of her mouth, blood covers her face and tear tracks run through it. She looks dreadful...but she smiles a little and nods.

“I’m glad. Now let’s get out of here and get drunk.”

She laughs. “You do that. I might even have a tankard.”

He chuckles along with her, not saying anything about how she normally hates alcohol. "But first, we get clean. Especially you."

They walk side by side on the way out of town and to the nearest Inquisition camp. There is guilt and peace warring in her face, but Blackwall is proud. Justice is difficult to do, but it must be done. 

He will do well to remember that.


	19. Chapter 19

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Night in the Western Approach.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Short but sweet.

The others have gone into the tent to hide from the wind - Dorian hasn’t stopped bitching about it since they got here, but wherever there are large groups of Venatori, Clarice brings him - but Blackwall is still outside, keeping watch. 

Clarice comes out a few moments later. Despite the night's chill, she has pulled off her armor and changed into more comfortable clothes - silk pants, a high collared shirt, a loose shawl pulled around her shoulders. She settles near him, legs crossed delicately under her, and tucks the shawl around her. Her staff rests on the ground beside her - underdressed, but certainly not unprepared.

“Can’t sleep?”

She shakes her head. “Can’t stop thinking about Pharamond.”

Frankly, that’s understandable. The Chantry logbook had been quite a surprise. “I take it you looked into it.”

She nods. “Cole met him.” Blackwall’s eyebrows raise. She adds, “Pharamond was asked to...find a cure for Tranquility. He was cured, somehow.”

The implications of that are rather staggering. That isn’t lost on him, and especially not on Clarice. “I want to find out more. I want to find  _ him _ , if he’s still alive.”

He nods. If anyone might know more about her current position, how to  _ survive it _ , it would be that Pharamond.

They sit in quiet, the embers of the fire casting faint light against them, and a gust of wind blows sand past them. Clarice closes her eyes, covering them with a hand. Blackwall shivers slightly. Without a word, Clarice shifts closer and lifts her shawl around him. It is wool lined with fur, from the feeling of it. It is faintly warmed by her body heat, and Blackwall relaxes into it, trying not to lean too much into her. “Thank you.”

She nods. 

The shawl smells of rosemary and mint, the herbs she keeps tucked in her bag to keep everything from smelling badly. He can faintly smell soap and a hint of lyrium crackling from Clarice’s skin. He tries not to commit the smell to memory.

He fails.

“...it’s beautiful out here.”  Her voice catches and her eyes are tilted up to look at the stars. 

Blackwall has to admit that while the Western Approach is absolutely dreadful, it does have a very pretty sky. The moons are bright and clear, so bright that it’s hard to see the stars, but there are constellations a plenty.  “It is.”

She raises a finger to trace out a shape, upward and sideways swishes that look like a diamond.

“What do you see?” He can't help but ask.

“Judex,” she says softly. 

“The sword of Mercy?” He knows that one.

She leans over and outlines it for him, pointing out the six stars that make it up. “Yes. Although it wasn’t always.”

He frowns. “No?”

“No. Judex is an old Tevinter word for justice,” she replies. “For executions, I believe. The blade pointed down means that it’s a guilty verdict.”

_ Ah.  _ He tries not to feel that rip at his chest. “You like the stars?”

Her eyes light up. “Yes. I couldn’t see them very well at the Circle through the windows but we would try to study them. A friend…” she frowns, focusing for a moment, and drags the memory out of the fog of her brain, “Esther. Esther told me the stories behind them.”

“Tell me more.”

She points to another. “Bellitanus.” This one is more complex, but he can’t quite make out the shape.

“The...maiden?”

Clarice doesn’t make any patronizing comments, but she does smile and that feels even better. “Every age, we think she is a different beautiful woman. Queen Madrigal in the Exalted Age, and Queen Asha before her. But that’s not who she is. We think it might be Urthemiel, the Old God of Beauty.”

He frowns, the edge of it tickling this memory. Something Warden Blackwall said? A story he read once? “I know that name.”

She nods. “The darkspawn finding Urthemiel started the Fifth Blight.”

_ Shit. Right.  _ He winces where she cannot see. Should he have known that? She knows he isn’t a Warden, so she doesn’t expect him to have Warden knowledge, but he can feel it eating at him anyway. “Terrible that a god of Beauty caused so much suffering.”

She leans a bit closer, tucking into his body heat. He tries not to hold his breath. For the first time that didn’t involve one of them nearly dying, they are touching. More than just a hand against a shoulder, or holding hands. There is contact. Pressure. 

It feels like a victory.

He offers just a touch of pressure against her, trying to soak up just a bit more of her warmth. She doesn’t lean away. Her head tips slightly to rest against his shoulder. 

“Tell me more?” He asks softly, hoping to spin this out longer. 

And she does. She spins stories of constellations that he knows from his childhood, ones he’s seen in the sky when he wasn’t paying attention, and ones that he didn’t even know. She draws from elven myth, Tevinter stories, Avvar, Qun tales, Alamarri legends, more things than he knew would have stories. But they are all the same sky. Of course they do. Each set of stars looks brighter after she points it out and tells its story. The sky looks more...alive, almost.

_ How does she do that? How does she make the world brighter? _


	20. The Winter Palace

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sticking a Fereldan in the Winter Palace. What could go wrong?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Clarice wants to die the entirety of the Winter Palace quest. Too many eyes on her.

The Winter Palace is more uncomfortable than anything Clarice has ever experienced. She tugs at the tight collar, hoping that all of the etiquette that Josephine had taught her would stick. The information had been shoved in and practically stomped on to make sure it all stayed in her head. Now the trick came to know when and how to use it all.

“And accompanying the Grand Duke,” the man calls, “Inquisitor Clarice Rivers, of the Kirkwall Circle, vanquisher of the rebel mages of Ferelden, crusher of the vile apostates of the Mage Underground! Champion of the Blessed Andraste herself!”

Gaspard laughs from ahead of her. “Did you see their faces? Priceless.”

_ Isn’t the point of masks that you _ ** _can’t_ ** _ see their faces? _She bites her tongue to hold the comment back and slows her pace, waiting for her companions to join her.

"And accompanying her: Seeker Cassandra Allegra Portia Calogera Filomena–"

Cassandra yells from the back, "Get on with it!"

To his credit, the speaker only stumbles for a second. "…Pentaghast. Fourteenth cousin to the King of Nevarra, nine times removed. Hero of Orlais, Right Hand of the Divine. Warden Blackwall of Val Chevin, constable of the Grey. Bearer of the Silverite Wings of Valor."

_ Well, not really. I won't press him on it. _

"Mai Ballsitch of Korse." 

Clarice has to draw hard on the part of her that had been Tranquil so she doesn't snicker. Gaspard certainly let a sound out, and she was certain that anyone with eyes can see how delighted she was. Sera’s snigger in the distance definitely doesn't help. Somehow, she keeps herself still and walks up to greet the Empress.

"Welcome to Halamshiral, Inquisitor Rivers. How do you find Orlais?"

_I'm Fereldan, how do you think I find it?_

"It is far more than I ever expected, Your Grace."

* * *

_The bards hear many whispers from the Inquisitor's party: _

"Are you trying to hide behind me, Inquisitor?"

"Cullen, I felt less out of place in the Fade.”

“We can survive. At least no one is grabbing your arse.”

“I already went through _ one _ Harrowing. This feels like another.”

“I’d offer wine, but I’m going to need it. Work fast.”

“I’ll try.”

...

"Leliana, I have no idea how you think I am subtle. Everyone is _looking at me._"

"You will be alright."

"Are they whispering about me?"

"Of course. It would be a tragedy if they were not."

"But about the brand?"

"I am keeping a list of names."

"Thank you, Leliana."

...

“…Blackwall, I need help.”

“What do you mean?”

“The library door is locked, and the only entrance is on the second floor.”

“So what do you need my help with?”

“…I need a boost up the trellis.”

“Maker, _ Clarice. _”

“_I can’t climb and I apparently need to get in there. _”

“Ugh…alright. We will need a distraction."

"Get Sera. She is the embodiment of a distraction.”

...

“Are they missing me, Blackwall?"

"Please tell me you found what you were looking for.”

“I…think so? I need to talk to Leliana.”

“Good. I tried to deflect questions about where you went.”

“Tried?”

“I am not good at courtly things.”

“…Josephine will not be happy with us.”

* * *

“Well, well, what have we here?”

Clarice pauses. She knows that voice. Far in her memory, wrapped in a falling Circle and demons...she knows that voice. 

“The leader of the new Inquisition, Fabled Herald of the Faith, delivered from the grasp of the fade by the hand of blessed Andraste herself. What could bring such an exalted creature here to the Imperial Court, I wonder? Do even you know?”

“Hello, Lady Morrigan,” Clarice replies, trying not to let memories of Ferelden Circle swamp her. The last time she saw this woman, she could turn into a spider and storm her enemies. The idea is terrifying, now that she thinks about it. All she can hope to do is divert attention. “I take it you are the Empress’s arcane advisor?”

“I am. And do my eyes mistake me?” Morrigan steps forward, her boots clicking on the marble stairs, and she peers down at Clarice’s headband. “Not only the leader of the Inquisition, but a survivor of Ferelden Circle, made whole again by the magic of the Fade? Fascinating.”

“On that, we agree,” Clarice replies. "I hope to learn more of it."

“You look well, for one so dramatically changed.”

“I have had a great deal of support.”

“I am sure. Now, do not think you can evade me so easily. You have been very busy this evening, hunting in every dark corner of the palace,” Morrigan leads her forward and Clarice follows. “Perhaps we hunt the same prey.”

“I hope so,” Clarice replies. “I could use another ally, especially with those...pests.”

Morrigan smiles. “A sentiment I share, considering recent events.”

They walk and talk, and Clarice feels her skin crawl faintly. Leliana had warned her of Morrigan, and Clarice has spent enough time around people to know when someone is bribing her.

"Happy hunting, Inquisitor. We shall speak again at night's end."

"I am counting the minutes, Lady Morrigan."

* * *

By the end of the night, Clarice is so exhausted that there are no words. Morrigan seems to sense it in their conversation as she offers her assistance to the Inquisition, and as the conversation tapers off, the witch curtseys to her. “I will discuss with you further in Skyhold. I believe there is more that we can do for each other.”

“Thank you, Lady Morrigan,” Clarice says softly. “Until then.”

As the Arcane Advisor turns to depart, Clarice leans on the railing, resting her forehead on her arms. She takes a moment to gather herself, eyes shut, her heart slowly calming down in her chest. This had been quite a night. She’d gathered her courage, put on a show for the Orlesians, danced with Grand Duchess Florianne (Clarice desperately needed a bath after that), and promptly ruined the woman in front of everyone there. She’d even managed to match Briala and Celene back up. She’d saved Thedas - for the moment. Now, she just wants to be alone.

There are footsteps behind her, coming from the hallway. She knows the cadence and smiles a little. 

...Maybe not completely alone.

“There are at least a dozen young lords and ladies hoping for some time with the hero of the night,” Blackwall makes his way out onto the terrace and settles beside her. “I sent them on their way.”

“Thank you,” Clarice can’t help the heaviness of her sigh as she drags her eyes up to look at him.

He doesn’t make an open note of why she’s alone or how heavy she looks. She thinks he understands why. “Care to share your thoughts?”

“I’m just tired. It’s been a long night.” Understatement of the century.

“You work too hard, Clarice.” She knows what he’s saying. _You put so much of yourself into tonight, into surviving tonight, and I know that it’s important and that you almost single handedly saved Thedas, but I know how hard it was for you. You need time alone from this._

“It’s what I do.” _I have to endure it. I have to if I want to relearn how to be a person._

Blackwall sighs. “I can see you’re wanting to get away from it all. I shouldn’t disturb you.”

“You never do,” she replies softly and points a finger behind her. “It’s what’s waiting back here that is disturbing me.”

He looks around, noting the party and the hordes clearly waiting for her to come back in. After a moment of silence, he gets a grin on his face. She can see it out of her periphery and she can’t help but be intrigued. “The last dances are starting. They’ll be distracted. Can you cast Barrier without your staff?”

At first, she thinks it’s a dirty joke and frowns at him. Too many people have made cutting remarks like that to her all night. Then he gestures at the balcony, she gets it, and Clarice gets a frankly ridiculous grin on her face. Energy slides back into her as she replies with delight, “Yes. Yes, I can.”

“Fantastic.” He leans back to catch Josephine’s attention. “I already cleared it with the lady ambassador. She’ll cover your tracks.”

“Our,” Clarice gently corrects. She’s seen how uncomfortable Blackwall is here. His eyes widen and she adds, “I said you don’t disturb me.”

“So you did.” His voice is soft. 

She waves at Josephine and mouths, “See you later.” With a wave of her hand, a familiar blue light ripples over the two of them and they both jump off the balcony. They land in a hedge, sliding off of it onto the ground. Then they start running, Clarice trying not to snicker into her hand as they dart off like teenagers sneaking out to go to a party. Only it’s the other way around.

Maker, these are the things that you don’t get to do when you’re stuck in the Circle.

One of the carriages is already set to leave, and they hop into it. The driver sets off on their signal, and Clarice ducks down in the seat, trying to make sure no one sees her. “Can you imagine what they’ll say?” She grins, the absolute delight making her face glow. “The Inquisitor snuck out of the party early with a Grey Warden.”

He laughs and opens his pockets. “With all the leftovers.”

“You didn’t!” She sits upright and watches as he pulls a small feast of napkin-wrapped hor d'oeuvres out of his pockets, laying them on a cloth on a ledge in the carriage. Canapes, cheeses, crackers, fruits, ham...it is a veritable feast.

“Now if only we had something to drink,” he is almost pouting. “I didn’t have enough room in my pockets.”

Clarice reaches into her jacket, glad for once that she is thin and that the jacket could expand. “Then let me amend my statement: the Inquisitor snuck out of a party early with a Grey Warden, with all the leftovers,” she pulls out a bottle, “and a bottle of the Empress’s wine?”

“No!” He stares at her. “You didn’t!”

She grins. She hadn’t known she had it in her. “She made me decide the political future of her country,” Clarice says firmly. “And it’s not the most expensive bottle. Just...a good one, from what I remember.”

He takes the bottle and turns it over in his hand. “Maker’s breath. A Vint-9 Rowan's Rose. This is excellent wine.”

“Then I’d say that’s an even better reason to drink it.”

They pour cups as the carriage bounces along the road, and Clarice’s smile is more than a little tender. Blackwall smiles. “What do we toast to, Saviour of the Empress, of the Orlesian Empire, of Thedas itself?”

Clarice flushes. “Hm. To never having to do it again?”

He laughs. “I’ll drink to that.”


	21. Chapter 21

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A quiet stolen moment in the Exalted Plains.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _I couldn't get this dialogue to trigger but it's so good and I had to put it in so here!_

They find a fishing pier in the Exalted Plains. It’s not surprising - with a river cutting through it, it makes sense that people would take advantage of its bounty. Clarice steps carefully onto the pier to mark it on her map, making sure that the wood won’t give way under her with rot. That has happened far too many times. 

Blackwall sighs behind her. “Wonder if the fishing’s good. If we had an hour or two…”

She has an idea.

* * *

“Blackwall,” she hisses softly, tapping the ground beside his bedroll repeatedly. "Blackwall."

He startles awake in an instant, his hand going to his sword beside the mattress. His blurry eyes scan her and when he takes her in properly, he relaxes. “Maker’s breath, Clarice,” he murmurs, “You scared me.”

“Sorry,” she is, but she is quietly amused regardless and he smiles in response. “I’ve got something to show you. It’s a bit of a walk.”

His eyebrows raise. “Alright. Lead the way.”

It’s just barely dawn, only a few rays of morning sunlight creeping over the mountains. Varric is on watch and smiles at them as he passes over a torch. Clarice slings a bag over her shoulder, settling it next to her staff, and takes the torch as well. Blackwall looks a bit confused when Varric doesn’t join them, but Clarice knows the right way to get his attention. She offers her hand to him, and with a startled look at her (he's trying to make sure she's sure and _oh does that make her feel warm inside)_, he takes it. Their fingers lace together and Blackwall lets out a soft little sigh of pleasure. 

It’s nice. She rather likes holding his hand.

They walk southwest from the camp up to the river. They cross it, passing by the Dalish camp with a small wave to Ithiren, and walk towards the Ancient Baths. It is empty at this time in the morning - no more Freemen to try and loot the site - and their boots echo on the stone. They walk down towards the river, Clarice leading them on, and she turns him through the ruins to…

The fishing pier.

Blackwall asks softly, “Why are we here?”

She doesn’t speak. It’s easier to show. She finds a spot to hook the torch, giving them some light, and pulls the bag off her shoulder. She opens it and pulls out...a fishing rod. Hooks and bait, and a wineskin that is still faintly warm to the touch. That was always something her father had liked - warm tea with a touch of liqueur to spice up the morning. Blackwall stares for a moment before chuckling. “Really?”

“My papa always said this was the best hour to fish,” she hands him the rod, feeling a frankly absurd amount of joy for this small action. “We have a couple of hours.”

_ And I wanted to spend time with you. _

He seems to understand her and his face goes soft. He takes the fishing rod, their fingers touching for a moment, and he settles on the edge of the dock to set the rod up. She takes a seat beside him, her legs crossed, and watches him put the hook together with ease. Their knees touch slightly, and Clarice pulls out a small book, opening it on her lap.

They sit in quiet, Clarice reading and Blackwall fishing. Eventually, he lets out a shout as something tugs on his line. Clarice hurriedly puts the book under her coat, not wanting it to get wet, and rocks up onto her knees instinctively, an old muscle memory coming out. “Big one!” He grins. She waits and Blackwall pulls out a large trout, fat from the many things that have fallen into the river. It flops on the dock in desperate survival instinct.

“Blackwall, move your hand.” Clarice curls her fingers into a fist, force magic covering it like a glove, and he snatches his hand back in time for her to gently pound her fist down onto the fish’s head. It stills immediately, skull cracked and spine broken. 

“Nicely done,” he grins, pulling the fishing rod out of the water and re-baiting the hook. “Do you know how to clean it?”

She shrugs and shakes her head. “I watched my father and some cooks, but they are old memories.”

“You watch the rod and I’ll do it then,” he passes the baited rod over to her and she puts it back into the water. She watches over her shoulder as he cleans the fish with ease, knife sliding through the flesh. As he pulls out the guts, she withdraws the hook and holds out a hand. He offers them to her and she threads them around the hook before replacing it back into the water.

“Your father used to fish?”

She nods. “Yes. There was a fishing hole not far from our farm. Bass, mostly. He took my brother and I all the time. I might even remember where to find it, if I ever go back.”

“Good memories?”

“Yes. Although I think I screamed the first time we had to kill a fish. Couldn’t catch anything else for the rest of the day,” she chuckles. “There was a long chat after that.”

“I can imagine.”

“And you?”

Clarice knows that he doesn’t tell the truth most of the time. She can see him weighing the thought of what to say: lie, truth, or half-truth. Finally, he answers, “...my sister hated it. But there was a boy she liked that would go all the time, Archer was his name, so she’d have me take her. She’d go sit and flirt with him, and I got to sit by myself and fish while ‘supervised’.”

“And how did it go with the boy?”

He chuckles. “When she was fourteen, he pulled out a fish too roughly and it slapped her in the face. She screamed at him and left in a huff. She never came with me again. Archer and I fished together until I went off to serve.”

_ Truth.  _ Clarice’s heart warms and she gives him a warm smile. “Thank you.”

His expression looks pained, like it hurts to remember the moment properly, but he looks a little more comfortable. “Thank  _ you. _ ”

By the time they return to camp, they have three trout of varying size, and a few crayfish (they argue over which way to say it for a bit) that Clarice manages to catch in a force cage. Blackwall holds the fish in one hand, fishing rod in a bag over his shoulder, and Clarice carries the crayfish. Their free hands are linked as they walk back with the morning sun on their faces. 

Solas and Varric are both awake, and are in the process of making some kind of tea when they arrive. “How are the fish biting?” Varric calls. 

“Great,” Blackwall grins. “Leave the tea on, I think it’ll flavour the crawfish.”

“Crayfish,” Clarice replies with a raised eyebrow.

“Crawfish.”

“Crayfish.”

“Agree to disagree?” 

Clarice rolls her eyes at him. "As you wish."

“We’ll call them breakfast,” Varric grins, opening up the pot of boiling water. She tips the crawfish in and Blackwall sets the fish out to cook. “Anything’s better than rations.”

The fish is delicious, as expected. Clarice tears into it with gusto, a bit of juice dripping down her chin. Solas picks at it, but doesn’t turn to the rations. He is apparently  _ not  _ a fish man.

“We should do that again sometime,” Blackwall says softly. 

Clarice smiles. “I agree.”

Will they have time? She doesn't know. But perhaps they can steal a moment or two before it all goes to hell in a handbasket.


	22. Chapter 22

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Variation of the barn scene. Or Blackwall stealing a moment and Clarice surprising him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Sound of Music definitely set my standards for romance. Don’t judge me. Also hand kisses are an ART.

He is staring at the fire when she comes in, lost in his thoughts. The flames flicker. She doesn’t greet him immediately, simply taking her place by his side. It gives him a moment to gather his words. 

“Do you want a drink? I’ve a hankering for company.”

She blinks slowly in the way that he knows means that she’s thinking about it, and finally, she nods. Her head jerks in the direction of the Herald’s Rest and they walk in quiet silence together. She knows what he is doing with this offer - and he knows that. The tavern is quiet at this time of night. No one is there. It’s the perfect time to talk about things that they don’t want anyone else to hear.

Clarice finds the mug of cider set aside for her and warms it, her hand glowing around the mug. He pours himself a tankard of ale, and they find a spot at the counter, side by side. He can’t help being lost in thought when sitting there. All of the words that he wants to say are disappearing. 

Clarice breaks the silence. “You’re brooding.”

Blackwall looks quickly at her. The set of her mouth is amused, her eyes twinkling. He can’t help the somewhat petulant response. “I am not.”

“You are,” she upgrades to a small smile. “I like brooding.”

His brow settles. Clarice has never judged him, other than judging him worthy. It is as good of a place to start as any. “I was thinking about when we went to that ruin, when we found the badge.” 

She nods with the memory and he sighs. “Everything seemed so clear then, like I could do anything with you by my side.”

_ Now you know I’m not a Warden, now there’s a letter waiting on my desk, now I know that I have a choice to make… _

She is quiet. He continues, emboldened and needing to say it aloud. “Anything. That’s a hard word, you know. Means a lot.”

She offers her hand to him, palm open on the table. He blinks for a moment before hesitantly taking it, lacing their fingers together. It feels good. They’ve both taken off their gloves. He feels every scar on her skin, every callus that has come from her regaining her strength, and she gives his hand a gentle squeeze.

Her voice is gentle but firm. “_ You _ mean a lot.” 

He swallows, feels the colour rise in his cheeks. He feels the intense urge to kiss her, to press her against the bar or drag her back to the barn and press her into the hay. If they were any other man and woman, he might have. But they are not, so he holds still, watching her intently, giving her hand a squeeze in return. 

“You need to know that I’m not worthy of you. Whatever this is, friends or something else...there’s no future for us with me as a Warden.”

With a raised eyebrow, she taps one of his knuckles sharply with a finger. He blinks at the sudden contact and movement (he can still feel the ghost of it), but corrects himself accordingly. “With me...as a pretend Warden.” That hurts to say, and she seems to understand that, her expression crumpling a little.

“What is your name?” She asks softly. “I want to say this right.”

...oh, he can’t deny her anything. “Thom.”

“Thom,” she says it slowly, carefully, and sweet Maker, he could listen to her saying his name every day. As much as it stings and sounds like a lie, she makes it almost sound like home. Her thumb smooths over his knuckles, almost meditative as she considers her words. “You are important to me. That I can tell you for sure. Whatever that future is, I don’t think we can say for sure. We don’t even know what will come tomorrow. Let us, for the moment, focus on the now.”

That...that he can do. It is honestly better that he does.The present doesn’t trap him like the past and future do. “Then it’s just you and me.” An idea strikes him and before his insecurity can chase it away, he grabs onto it with both hands. He rises, still holding her hand, and gestures to the space cleared of chairs. “I don’t think you’re up for close quarters, but do you know the Laendler?”

Her mouth opens, staring for a moment, and then she smiles. “Yes. I do.”

There is no one to play music for them - Blackwall hums instead to keep the beat, and Clarice chimes in when she can. They definitely keep a bit more space between them than is customary for this dance, but they still pull it together with ease. Clarice even breaks a grin when she spins around him, holding out an imaginary skirt, and Thom’s face grows still to hide how desperately taken he is with her. When the dance brings them close, hands interlaced, bodies barely half a foot apart, she looks up at him, and him down at her. She stands on her toes for a moment, bringing her close enough to feel the wisps of his beard, and it takes every ounce of willpower he has not to kiss her. He does let out a sound, low and soft, and her eyes stare deep into his.

_ I am trying so hard to be a good man for you. _

He can’t will his feet to move away. 

She smiles at him, a soft smile that he’s never properly seen on her face before, one that almost looks like she’s in love with him. She lowers their hands to rest between them. She clasps his in hers properly and he braces himself for the squeeze, for her stepping away and leaving it as that.

He is not prepared, then, when she raises them to her mouth and presses a tender chapped kiss to his knuckles.

His breath catches and his eyes widen. He will forever remember the shape of her lips, the warmth of her skin, the shade of her eyelashes against her skin as her eyes close to savour the moment, the light brush of her breath when she draws away. It feels like a gift. No, a benediction, even if she isn’t Andraste’s Herald. 

It breaks him. Every inch of his heart breaks, his soul crumples even as it soars, and even if it doesn’t quite show on his face, he knows that the effect of that kiss isn’t lost on her. She smiles softly and gives his hands a squeeze.

“Thank you, Thom.”

His voice cracks. “Thank _ you. _”

_ Now I _ ** _have _ ** _ to find some way to deserve you. _


	23. Revelations

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Revelations quest. Or Clarice screams at Blackwall.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fun fact, I wrote this chapter before I wrote any other. This is the birth of Clarice/Blackwall.

A single pair of boots thunder down the steps, and Thom looks away from the door. Not a soldier, from the pace of it. Too ragged. It’s just someone angry. There is a muffled conversation, Cullen talking and a terse voice responding. It sounds familiar, but he can’t quite place it from this distance. Then the boots come towards him and he suddenly recognizes the cadence seconds before he is staring down at a furious Clarice.

“ ** _No. _ ** _ Not a chance in  _ ** _hell_ ** _ .” _

Thom has never seen Clarice so angry before. Scared, yes. Depressed, yes. Cracking the faintest of smiles at a joke, the lightness of the moment pulling the mountain of dread off her shoulders? Yes, and he cherishes those moments close to his black heart. But he has never seen her furious like she is now, tears in her eyes, face going red, one fist in his shirt dragging him against the bars (closer to her, even though he definitely still towers over her) and the other hand pointing a stabbing finger into his face.

“ _ Of all times, you are not allowed to decide  _ ** _now _ ** _ that you are willing to die!” _ Her voice is practically a snarl, but under the rage, there is so much hurt that it makes him wince.

He cannot let that hurt infect him. He rages at himself, at her (or rather, at his treacherous heart). “You weren’t supposed to find me! You were supposed to just think that I was gone! This was the last chance I could, and it saved Mornay’s life. It was hanging over me, haunting me, and I finally had the courage to face what I did! You  _ helped me find that courage! _ I couldn’t pretend anymore!”

She looks like he hit her, and her eyes darken.

“So you would leave the Inquisition, before we deal with Corypheus, because you finally decide that  _ now _ you can’t deal with what happened? Because now it’s suddenly okay that you want to die for what happened and you are going to throw yourself at it?”

“Don’t you understand? I gave the order to kill Lord Callier, his entourage, and I lied to my men about what they were doing! When it came to light, I. RAN. Those men, my men, paid for my treason while I was pretending to be a better man. This...is what I am. A murderer. A traitor. A monster.” He is angry with her now. “How can you take me away from my punishment?”

“BECAUSE IF I HAVEN’T KILLED MYSELF YET, YOU CAN’T EITHER!”

The prison echoes with the sound of her voice - less of a voice, more of a scream - and he stares at her in shock. An actual tear runs down her face, and she scrubs it away with her faintly glowing hand.

He forgets sometimes that there is a brand stamped into her forehead, that there are things that happened to her, things she enabled, things that people  _ did to her _ that she can’t forget. That she has to pull a mask over herself too, to pretend that she is okay.

He faintly remembers the first real question she asked him, the one that actually got them talking.

_ “Is duty the only thing that’s holding you together too?” _

“Clarice, I…” He can’t finish his sentence.

“Look,” she takes a ragged breath. Another tear clings to her lashes. “I understand that it was the right thing to do. I honestly do, and I’m…proud of you for doing that. For getting the strength to face your past and actually facing it. It was the honourable thing, and you are possibly one of the most honourable men I know.”

He starts to contradict her, but she puts up her hand to stop him from speaking.

“You are. Regardless of what you have done. You  _ try _ now. There is good in you. I believe that.”

She is quiet for a moment. Words are hard for her sometimes, and he waits to hear her speak.

“Blackwall…Thom…”

_ Maker, I could hear her say my name all day. Either of them. _

“You are…you are one of the few people I feel  _ safe  _ around. You don’t understand what happened to me, but you understand what I feel like. Even when I don’t sometimes,” her laugh is self-deprecating, bitter, and he raises a hand to cover the one still curled into his shirt. “I can’t lose you. Please. I haven’t wanted anything for a long time.”

_ And I want you. _

The unspoken words hit him home and a lump grows in his throat. He swallows around it, his own eyes a little wet, and he whispers softly, “Clarice…”

“Tell me?” She asks, and he cannot help but oblige, spinning the story of Thom Ranier and of Warden Blackwall, of a terrible man and the man who saw hope in him. She nods along, asks him quiet questions about his choices, and when he comes to the end of the story, she gives him a considering look.

“The Wardens gave you a chance to run away and start anew.”

He nods.

“I think I have an idea,” she has a small little smile, hopeful, and he frowns.

“Please, let me face the justice I deserve.”

“I can arrange that,” she replies. “I’ll see you back at Skyhold.”

“Clarice-” he frowns. 

Her fingers tighten as if she is preparing for his refusal. “I think I know the way that you can make up for what you have done. You saved your man’s life. An absolvement for the rest of your squad is coming through. We’ll deal with any consequences that came from your assuming of Warden Blackwall’s identity. But…please don’t fight me on this. Let me be selfish for once in my life.”

He will fight her in the main hall, standing in front of her throne, wrapped in whatever chains they put around him. He knows he will. 

But in front of her now, in front of this tiny woman that he calls friend ( _ and perhaps more, in those moments where he hopes that he could have more, if he was a good man and she could put her demons to rest _ )…how can he refuse?

He says nothing. She lets go of his shirt, smoothing the fabric she rumpled with careful hands. Scarred fingers touch his, and the memory of her touch will be enough to hold him until his fate. She draws away, steps back, and murmurs, “See you soon.”

The prison feels empty without her there, and he settles back on the cell bed. It is what he deserves, and he hopes she will not go easy on him.


	24. Chapter 24

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Judgement of Thom Rainier.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Redemption arcs are my jam. Enjoy.

Thom Rainier walks up to the throne, surrounded by guards, and he stares sullenly ahead, facing his fate. The room is empty - there are no nobles to witness it. There are the guards, there is Josephine...and there is Clarice, one leg crossed over the other, resting her chin on one hand, trying to look nonchalant. Even so, he can see her fingers of her other hand knotted into the arms of the chair, her knuckles white. He saw her on the throne before, giving Judgement to Gereon Alexius. She looked too small for the throne, nervous of the responsibility put on her shoulders, like there was literally anywhere else she would rather be.

Whether it be practice or perspective, she looks different this time. She still looks hesitant, nervous about judging him, but she seems to fill the throne. There is more confidence, more strength. She looks every inch the Inquisitor, and he is so, so proud of her in that moment. Even if he is still angry that she pulled him from the justice he was due.

Josephine announces him, as is her job, following with “It was no small expense to bring him here, but the decision of what to do with him is up to you.”

She steps away, as do the guards, and even though they are still there, it feels like Clarice and Thom are alone.

“I didn’t think this would be easy,” Clarice says softly, breaking the formality, “but it’s much harder than I thought.”

He hangs his head for a moment, murmuring softly, “Another thing to regret.” Then his eyes sharpen as he looks at Clarice. “I know you put another man in my place. Haven’t enough died for me?”

She frowns. “He was a murderer, and I think you’ve lost the right to judge anyone, Thom.”

That stings, but he powers through it. “There’s enough evil in this world because of me. I accepted my punishment. I was ready for all this to end!” He can’t help sounding plaintive, even as Clarice’s face hardens, despair in her eyes. “Why would you stop it?”

“I told you why,” she says firmly. “You are important to me. We need you.  _ I  _ need you.”

He never thought that having her attention would hurt so much. He slips back into formality, squaring his shoulders. “What becomes of me now?”

Clarice leans forward in her chair, decision made. “Blackwall intended you to join the Wardens, Thom. I will let them decide your fate, but only when Corypheus is dead. Thom Rainier,” she says his voice like a title, with all the weight of one, “the Inquisition needs you.”

“As you command.” That is a simple answer, and it holds back the volumes of emotion that fill him. The Wardens. He will be sent to the Wardens, as he was meant to? He will serve, as he was meant to?

...he’ll be sent far away from Clarice where she’ll never have to see him again, trying to make up for a name he stole.

Clarice doesn’t stop. Her eyes pierce him like an arrow to a target and every word hits him like a fresh bolt. “Blackwall gave you the chance to atone through action, not merely punishment. I find that I can do no less.”

Oh, that hurts ( _ redemption and atonement are supposed to hurt, aren’t they, deal with it, Rainier _ ), but he keeps his chin up. He can do that. He can atone. “Before I take my leave, I have one thing to say.” She gestures for him to speak, and he does so in a soft voice. “If there was anything true and good in my life, it was having you as a friend.”

He opens his mouth to say more, but her raised hand cuts him off. “Come see me after.” Her voice is soft, and he isn’t sure if anyone else hears it, but he nods. Of course he will obey that.

* * *

When he finally makes it up to her room, Clarice is sitting on the end of her bed, legs crossed. She’s dragged over a table, a multitude of books in front of her, and she places a bookmark in a spot before closing it. She’s doing her own research on something, using the skills the Circle drummed into her head to be useful, and Thom can’t help the fond smile on his face. She looks up at him and gives him a nod, the slightest touch of a smile. she’s switched out of the formal armour and Inquisition clothes. She has taken to soft things - cloth and fur, things that cover her from head to toe but don’t constrict. Dark silk pants, a high collared shirt and a wool sweater, her feet bare. She looks so vulnerable like this and the thought that he’s the one who gets to see her like this stabs him like a knife.

“Thank you for coming,” her voice is soft.

He shrugs. “You asked me to. You are, or were, my friend.”

Her forehead creases. “That's what I wanted to talk to you about.” Her hands clasp on her lap. “There was something you wanted to say.”

He takes a breath and gathers the strength he had put together in the throne room. “I lied about who I was, yes, but I never lied about how I felt. How...highly I regard you.”

Clarice’s cheeks go pink, but she does not look away from him. She is quiet as he continues. “No matter what I was or what becomes of me, right now, I am just a man.” As steady as he tried to be before, something in him shatters at the possibility of her answer. His voice shakes. “What becomes of us, whatever it is...I leave it in your hands.”

Clarice barely waits for him to finish speaking before she jumps in. “You were ready to die. I was not ready to let you go.”

His eyes snap to hers. Her cheeks are pink, and she shifts on the bed like she’s about to spring off it. Then she gathers herself, straightening her back, lowering her voice. “What do you want me to call you? I want to say this properly.”

The answer is easy. “Blackwall. Thom is my name and I will answer to it, but...Blackwall is the title I will live up to.”

“Blackwall,” She steps over the table, careful not to jostle her books, and steps forward. comes up to him and asks softly, “May I?” 

As if she has to ask. “Of course.” 

Her fingers cup his face, followed by her other hand. The touch is gentle, her fingers spreading and scanning his skin, as if she is trying to memorize him. Her face is inscrutable, caught up in emotion that he can’t quite name. If he had to choose anything...it looks like hope.

“I thought I wasn’t going to see you again,” her voice is soft. “I saw you were gone and there are so many things I haven’t said.”

His breath catches in his throat and he looks at her, eyes wide. “What did you want to say?”

She lets out a slow breath. “I don’t even know how to put these thoughts into words. I’ve never had them before, not even before Tranquility,” there is nervous laughter, a little breathless as she looks at him. “They’re frightening, overwhelming, but I mean them more than anything. Do you understand?”

There are only a few things she can mean and there is one that makes his heart sing. He is glad that he left it in her hands. “Perhaps,” he murmurs. “If so, there are things I would say to you, if I could find the courage.”

“What a couple of fools we are,” she mutters. 

His hand comes up to cover hers, a thumb stroking over scarred knuckles. “Indeed.” A thought occurs to him eventually and his eyes lower. “I don’t know how to...be with you, be your friend as Thom Rainier.”

“How do we do everything else?” Her eyes sparkle. “We run at it and figure it out as we go.”

Her conviction makes his nerves fade. “Together.”

There’s nothing else that he can think of to say. There is nothing really to say. Eventually, her hands slide down, still holding his but keeping them at their sides. It takes everything he has not to just sit down and pull her onto his lap so she can keep doing that. But he doesn’t. He stays close, holding her hands, and she is smiling, gentle and warm. 

“You’ll make a great Warden,” she tells him softly. “I know it.”

Her confidence settles his nerves a little. “Is that not too easy a punishment?”

“No. It’s the perfect one,” she replies. “Make yourself worthy of the Wardens, Blackwall. That’s all we can really do. Make ourselves worthy of the titles we take.”

“As you say, Inquisitor.” 

She raises their hands up to her mouth and presses a kiss to his knuckles, lingering longer than she had before. Her eyes meet his and it takes every ounce of effort not to kiss her. But after she leans away, he draws hers up to do the same. It’s the closest they’ve come to a true kiss. It feels not quite like benediction.

It feels like a future.


	25. Chapter 25

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The "Well, Shit" quest. A little more lore dropping, and a whole lot of quiet rage.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have a little headcanon that at Kirkwall Circle, Clarice was one of the Tranquil involved in reforging the red lyrium idol into Meredith's sword. However, given that she's still alive, she probably didn't work on it for very long. This is her way of processing that anger.

When Bianca talks about the red lyrium, Clarice knows she has to go. Not that she wouldn't have gone anyways, given that it is an important threat and it's something that has to be dealt with, but it feels wildly personal. Of all of the images that flit through her dreams, there are a few where she sees glowing red and faint whispers that somehow broke through the cut connection of Tranquility. Red lyrium is dangerous.

Even talking about it makes her hands hurt, and she spends time that night soaking her hands in water, rubbing in cream, trying to will the last vestiges of pain out of her skin. It doesn’t fade, of course, but that’s red lyrium for you. Even the supposedly-resistant Tranquil were affected by it. She stares out her bedroom window at the mountains in the distance, wrapping bandages around her hands to try and give them comfort. 

She has to find it. She has to destroy it.

Varric gets it more than anyone else. When he sees her hands and the cream she tucks into her pocket, he understands. He stands close to her and says, “We’ll make sure it doesn’t hurt anyone else.”

“I feel like I should be saying that to you," she says softly. "You need closure more than I do."

"Let me pretend, Mouse," Varric tries to sound cheerful, but his heart isn't fully in it. Clarice doesn't pat his shoulder, but the look she gives him is close enough. 

Blackwall doesn't fully understand, of course, but he supports everything that she tries to do to make herself feel better. It shouldn't surprise her - he loves her and he wants her to heal as much as she can, not because he wants her to be normal but because he hopes she will stop hurting one day (and it's that just a beautiful thing, that he doesn't look at her and see something that needs to be fixed) - but it still does. When they camp down the lake from Valammar, he sits near her and doesn't ask anything. All he says is, "Tell me what to do."

"We need to destroy it," she says quietly. "Never mind making sure no one finds it, it needs to go where it can't hurt anyone. Don't listen to the song, don't let it tempt you. Just...destroy it."

He nods, expression firm. "Of course, Clarice." He doesn't have blind faith in her, of course, but there is something about that steadiness that comforts her. He knows they can do it, and they will.

The key is easy enough to find on a Carta member. Solas stands ready to go through, but cautions them of darkspawn. If Clarice was uncertain that Blackwall was really a Warden before, she would be now. He can’t tell where the Darkspawn are or how many there are. It's a good thing that the whole group knows, apart from Bianca. Clarice stays near Blackwall, not quite hiding behind him, but letting the man go ahead. Even though there is no authenticity to the Warden armour, it still gives her comfort.

When they approach a glowing red vein, Clarice winces in memory, curling her hands into fists and tucking them back into her pockets. Her staff is cradled in the crook of her arm, and even though there is very obvious distance between her and the vein, she can still hear the song.

_Leave me **alone, **_she snaps in her mind.

“I can feel that warmth from here. How can people touch it?” Blackwall mutters.

Varric asks softly, “Never mind touch, how did you  _ work  _ with it, Mouse?”

Everyone in the group stares at her, loudly asking without asking what on earth she had done to work on it. She doesn't answer that question.

“We were resistant to it, so it didn’t matter at first,” Clarice replies. “We worked with it like we worked with anything else. We got pieces in our hands, scratches and cuts...it wasn’t until Lorne got sick that Meredith realized that they needed to keep it out of us if she wanted us to keep going. She needed her sword and while there were plenty of Tranquil to work on it, it was hard to explain the sickness that came from it. Then we wore gloves. I didn’t spend as much time around it - she needed me to keep up the other enchanting - but I heard some of the ones who spent more time on it died from sickness.”

Bianca stares at her. “No wonder. It's nasty.”

Clarice sees the Red Templars in her mind and winces. Solas says quietly, "Then let's deal with it. Quickly."

* * *

They make their way down slowly, dealing with darkspawn and closing any cracks in the walls. She barricades the holes with ice, stone, and fallen wood. Solas finds some cement that they use as well, just to be safe. But, as they descend, they see it: the largest vein of red lyrium in all of Valammar. Clarice bristles in anger, and she feels the magic curling around her fingers in reflex. Bianca comments softly, “Careful. We don’t want to make too much noise.”

Varric looks at Clarice, his expression stony, and he nods. Clarice hears the silent  _ go for it  _ and although her expression is equally cold, she feels the anger rise in her _ .  _ Her hands raise, coming together but not quite touching, fingers wide and rounded into half spheres. The lyrium glows for a moment, covered in white, and Bianca stares. “What are you doing?”

She twists. And twists. And twists. 

The lyrium cracks each time, more and more shards breaking off, and soon it crumples under the force of her will. The sound echoes in the mine, ricocheting off of every wall, but Clarice’s will is unbreaking as she slowly and effectively destroys one of the many things that has hurt her. Varric watches with equal appreciation. Then she cups her hands, lifts the pieces into a nearby mining cart, and when every speck of red is gathered, she covers the entire thing in ice and rock. 

“You know the darkspawn will be drawn here, right? Just from that noise?” Bianca replies, voice nervous.

“You know I don’t care?” Clarice replies firmly, burying the lyrium deeper. Varric barks out a laugh and Blackwall chuckles softly. 

“We will be ready for the darkspawn,” Blackwall says, pride in his voice. “You just keep doing what you’re doing, Clarice.”

Every vein of red lyrium gets the same treatment. Solas and Clarice work their magic, keeping everyone else away from it as they bury the red lyrium under rock and ice, making sure no one else can get it. They move through every room with efficiency, until they deal with every visible drop and they find the key. 

When they find out who the leak was, Varric's disappointment in Bianca is audible. It's impressive how much emotion he can fit into her name - disappointment, disapproval, a recognition of how much he cares about her but oh, how she has fucked up. Clarice is quiet in her anger, but she is certain that it is on her face as she comments, "You were the one who leaked the thaig's location."

Bianca's explanation makes sense, somehow - studying red lyrium is an important thing to do, especially if it helps find a way to reverse it, and knowing that it has the Blight makes sense with how it infects people (although that means that lyrium is organic somehow and _how does that make any form of sense_) - but her giving a key to the Grey Warden mage that Varric saw in Corypheus's prison is just the mess of coincidences that she has come to expect. And doesn't like. At all. 

"I doubt you knew the turn of events that would come from giving the key up," Clarice says diplomatically, "but you knew it was dangerous and not only went yourself, but brought someone else in to deal with it."

Varric's anger deals with the rest, until Clarice finally has to interject, "What's done is done. There is no point in arguing about it." 

She decides that she is going to get over herself a bit when they get back and give Varric a hug.

Bianca has one last parting quip. "Get him killed, and I'll feed you your own eyeballs, Inquisitor."

Clarice's eyebrow raises. _That's happened once already for me, in another time, but I doubt you want to know that. _She settles on a simple, "Farewell, Bianca."

As they slowly make their way up the stairs out of Valammar, Clarice feels lighter. It's not the greatest thing that has lurked in her mind...but it is certainly something else off of her shoulders.

Varric gives her a smile, pained as his expression is. "We did good, Mouse."

She smiles back, small and slight. "Yes. We did."


	26. Lichtenberg Figures

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They run into the Vinsomer. They are...not prepared.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Guess what I did at too low of a level?
> 
> For a partial image reference, [here.](https://i.pinimg.com/originals/8e/9c/28/8e9c28d1373fffacb25394e2c5b8cc86.png)

“I have a bad feeling about this.”

Varric isn't even trying to sound light and teasing. Blackwall sees the tension in his shoulders. Ahead of them, the same tension locks into Clarice’s shoulders at the words. Not that he can blame them, this is a rather ominous spot – an isolated island a boat ride away from the former Red Templar base on the Storm Coast with nothing but a winding path up the hill to occupy it. There's lots of elfroot and blood lotus, at least, and Clarice spends a few moments filling her herb pockets. They go through a lot of the stuff for healing potions and Clarice's alchemy, so at least she has that, and her new armour has even deeper pockets. He rather likes the armour - it's leather and fabric, a variation of formal attire in black and gold that really is too pretty to get as covered with blood as they do. She looks lovely in it, of course, so at least he won't complain about the sight.

“Should we head back?” She asks gently, looking back at the group.

Bull shrugs. “I’m game with whatever, boss, and you know I’ve got your back.”

That’s definitely not in question. Bull throws himself into every fight they get into, charging forward to shield Clarice from blows, and he certainly doesn’t shy away from a challenge. Her eyes flick across them. Varric nods his approval to go with whatever she decides, and when her gaze levels on Blackwall, he rests his hand idly on his sword hilt. He nods as well and he says gently, “You know I’d follow you anywhere, Clarice.”

Bull makes a soft ‘aww’ noise, and Clarice’s fingers glow white as she gently flicks Bull on the shoulder with force magic. Still, her expression melts into something soft and warm. Despite the rain soaking through his armour, Blackwall feels that warmth seep into him. He is still baffled by how much she cares about him, but he soaks it up with delight.

“Alright. The usual, then. If it starts to get bad, run for your life.” Her mouth twitches in a smirk.

“Sounds like a plan, boss.”

They keep trekking up the hill. Blackwall chances a look at her as they walk. Her hair is flattened to her head, drops of rain dripping down the sides of her now less-sharp cheekbones, and there is a faint flush to her skin from cold and exertion. Her eyes are sharp, scanning everything around them. Clarice out in the wilds is so different from the one curled up in the safety of her room. She’s intent and driven, yes, but it’s a different kind. A hypervigilant kind.

He’s not sure which he likes better, even though this one reminds him that she spends most of her time afraid.

“Hey, Furrows.”

Blackwall blinks, pulling himself out of his not-so-subtle staring, and turns to the Iron Bull. “What? Me?”

“Yes. Furrows between the eyes,” Bull taps the spot just between the eyebrows, where Blackwall knows he’s getting wrinkles. “Moping. Lost in your own issues.”

Blackwall snorts. “Can't a man think without being judged for it?”

“I'm not judging. I was gonna say you're pretty good at it. I can't pull that off.”

He rolls his eyes. “A tragedy, for sure.”

Iron Bull smirks. “And I mean, if you're going to brood, you might as well reap the benefits.”

Dare he ask? “What benefits?”

“The ladies." The smirk in Iron Bull’s voice is practically palpable.

Clarice snorts so loud that it makes them jump. Blackwall sighs, but there is a smile on his face. “Is it working on you, my lady?”

She turns back, fond and amused. “It helps that we make a matching set.”

Varric chuckles. “Like a pair of brooding chickens?”

Clarice’s eyes sparkle with humour, lips parting slightly to fire back a dry joke, but then there is a shrieking cry ahead and her head snaps back around. It doesn’t take long to work out precisely what it is: a dragonling charging down the hill at them. Clarice pulls out her staff, ice magic dripping off the end of it, and casts a Barrier in time for the dragonling to spit fire at them. They plow through it with ease – Clarice freezes it, Blackwall hits it with his shield, Varric puts a bolt in an eye, and Iron Bull chops its head off. Even so, they are all ill at ease, because they know what it means: there’s a dragon nearby. The dragon they’d seen fighting the giant, presumably.

Blackwall chances a look at Clarice, and her face is a little pale, eyes wide as she stares up the path. “Still want to push forward?” He asks.

Finally, she nods. “To scout, at least. I don’t want to fight it, it doesn’t seem to be causing too many problems, but we’ll see.”

They make their way up the hill, killing more dragonlings as they go, and Clarice collects scales as she does so. Clearly, she’s got an armour concept in her mind that she’ll work out in the forge. Finally, they get to the top and they hear it. A familiar screeching scream, and the sound of electricity crackling along the group. Clarice peeks around a rock to look, and leans back with a wince.

“Well?” Bull looks excited.

Clarice thinks, pulls out the manual on dragons she had found, and flicks through it until she finds a description that fits. “Vinsomer,” she taps the page. “One in legend could cause thunderstorms with its breath and hurricanes with its wings.”

Blackwall whistles softly as she snaps the book shut. “Lightning in the rain. Not the best way to fight it.” He can already feel the static tinging along his armour's metalwork.

Bull is bouncing on his feet. “Tell me we get to fight her, boss.” He drops the ‘please’, and it is very hard to do puppy eyes with a single eye, but the man is clearly trying.

Clarice sighs and peers around again. Her exhale turns into a yelp as she jumps back, and lightning sparks over the rock. There is a screech, louder this time, and heavy steps coming their way.

“Well, that answers that question.” Varric loads Bianca, expression grim but excited. Blackwall readies his sword and shield. Clarice looks scared as she casts a Barrier.

And then they charge.

It…doesn’t go well. Not that Blackwall had really expected it to go swimmingly – their fights with dragons never do – but they usually come out of it in the end, if missing all of their potions and hanging on by a thread. Clarice Fade Steps out of the way of most of the lightning bolts, Varric shoots exploding arrows into the dragon’s open mouth, and he and Iron Bull hack at whatever vulnerable bits they can reach.

But then the health potions run out.

Then Clarice takes a lightning bolt straight to the chest. She flies back, slamming into a rock, and sinks to the ground. She stirs, but only slightly, not enough to get back on her feet.

Faintly, Blackwall hears a scream of her name through the ringing of his ears. Then he realizes its his own, as his feet make his way to her. He tears off a gauntlet to check her pulse.

It falters. Then it stops.

_NO._

Blackwall operates on sheer instinct and desperation to bring her back. He presses both hands on her chest, trying to force her heart to beat properly to what he guesses is the rhythm. Bull is trying to draw the dragon’s attention away from them, buying them time, but Blackwall doesn’t care. He is only focused on bringing her back. A few more presses, and then he checks. Finally, there's a beat, and another, and another until it settles into a faint rhythm. His exhale of relief is punched out of him and he makes the call, knowing that they are on borrowed time.

“RUN!”

Varric backflips out of the way off the dragon’s claws in a surprisingly nimble gesture and yells, “You don’t have to tell me twice!”

Bull doesn’t even pout or try to argue them out of it – he just calls, “I’ll cover you. Get her!”

No one has to tell him twice. Blackwall carefully scoops Clarice up into his arms, trying not to bump her head too much, and runs as fast as he can. She is still light, thank the Maker, so it isn’t hard work. Not that he’s too concerned about it being hard work, not while there is a cold pit in his stomach at the terrifying thought that her luck may have finally run out. Varric lays down covering fire so Bull can get out of the way, and they make a run for it down the hill back to the boat. The dragon screams above them, something like triumph or rage that her prey got away. Blackwall and Bull man the oars, going as fast as they can back to the encampment. Clarice lays half in Varric’s lap, his head against her stomach, and half in Blackwall’s. Her eyes don’t flutter, but her muscles spasm, jumping and twitching like lightning still runs through them.

Varric starts pulling elfroot out of her pockets and starts chewing it. No one has to ask why. As soon as it is wet, he pulls it out and tries to put it in her mouth, the green spit juice smearing across her lips. “Damn, she’s clenching her teeth,” Varric swears. “Come on, Mouse, open up.”

She doesn’t oblige. Without a word, worry skyrocketing, Blackwall hands Bull his oar and crawls forward, shifting her legs off of him. He pulls off his gauntlets, dropping them in the bottom of the boat, and shifts her position. He tilts her head back, lifts her chin, and presses his fingers behind her jaw. A little more pressure, and he manages to get it open. Varric shoves the elfroot in as soon as he can, and adds a little water from a canteen. A little massaging on her throat, and her body manages to swallow. Then they do it again. And again. Bull and Blackwall swap so that someone is always rowing, but finally, they manage to shove a healthy amount of juicy elfroot and water down her throat.

“We’ll get potions at camp, and find a healer,” Bull says.

“The Blades might have someone,” Varric points out, his hands carefully cupping Clarice’s head to cushion it. “Hang on, Mouse. We’ll get you help.”

She doesn’t answer. A short gloved thumb sweeps over her temple, avoiding the brand. Two large tattooed arms and two armour covered ones work in ferocious tandem to move faster.

They all love her, in their own ways. And they need her to be okay.

* * *

The Blades of Hessarian do, in fact, have a healer. And they are very familiar with the dragon and its breath, so they take Clarice and start to work immediately. “She’s a lucky woman,” one of the Blades tells the three of them as they wait outside the healer’s room, “we’ve lost a few people to that dragon. They were still twitching when we buried them.”

“That really doesn’t help,” Bull growls. She is alive, though. Blackwall can breathe at that, worried as he is. Still, he is tense, watching the door like a hawk.

Varric bumps his shoulder against Blackwall’s side. “Your girl’s got horseshoes up her ass and the strength of an army, Hero. She’ll be alright.”

Blackwall sighs. “It’s taking years off my life at this point.”

Varric laughs. “Yup. Now you know how I feel every time Hawke nearly died.”

Blackwall raises an eyebrow. “Is it the same feeling?”

Something in Varric’s face shifts, like he said something he shouldn’t have. A secret, or something. Bull chuckles. “We won’t tell anyone, Varric. Especially not Cassandra.”

The dwarf sighs. “Thanks. Not everything went in the book. What we got, it’s too…good for that, you know?”

Blackwall nods. “I understand.”

They are quiet for a bit longer. Bull says softly, “No more dragons?”

Blackwall shakes his head forcefully.

“I can live with that," Bull sighs, but he doesn't object.

They stay where they are, leaning against the wall, keeping watch, worrying. Varric tries to distract them with a game of Wicked Grace. Blackwall can't focus. Hell, he can barely breathe with the knot in his chest. After what feels like ages, the healer leans out. “One of you is her lover, yes?”

Blackwall straightens, anxiety filling him, and Bull shoves him forward when his feet don't quite respond.

“She will be alright, but come in. You may want to see this before it fades.”

He does with unease. The door closes behind him, and in the dim candlelight, he can see the lone cot. Clarice is awake in it, eyes barely open as she watches the new movement, and there are no bandages on her. Just a blanket, pulled up to her neck. The relief makes his knees weak as he gasps, “Clarice.” He strides forward and kneels by her side. Her answering smile is soft, and she tips her head forward to touch his, forehead to forehead. He doesn’t say ‘_your heart stopped, I almost lost you, please don’t let me lose you’, _and she doesn’t say ‘_I can’t promise you that, I was scared too, but I am glad we are both here and okay.’_ They don’t say it, but they both know what the other means.

When they finally draw apart, the healer says softly, “We do not see many people who survive lightning strikes, but the few that we have, well…lightning leaves a mark behind. It is rather beautiful, although short lived. Much like lightning, I suppose. I thought you might like to see, and the Herald said it would be alright.”

“And why didn’t you invite the others in?”

The healer is blunt. “Because where the mark is, Warden. I don't think it would be appropriate.”

He remembers where it hit. His brain stutters. “Oh.”

Clarice’s cheeks are a little pink, but her chin is up. Confident. Her eyes are a little wider now, awareness filling her with the idea that he is going to see her half nude. For a woman who uses modesty as armour...it says a lot. She doesn't say anything, but she nods affirmatively.

“I’ll let you two be for a bit.” The woman backs out of the room, closing the door behind her, so it’s just the two of them.

“Might be the only time you get to see this.” Nervous laughter slips into her words.

He blinks, but he thinks he understands. “That’s alright. I am more than happy with what we have.”

Her eyes get a little wet at that, but she shifts up on the pillows, filled with determination. Then, she slides the blanket down to her waist and Blackwall's jaw drops. The lightning left marks indeed, and it is unlike anything he’s ever seen. Her pale skin is covered in red and pink lines. They look like ferns, frost, crackles of lightning, spiraling up from the center of her chest, over her small breasts up to her shoulders, and down to her belly button. Some spots are a darker red than others, some spots cracked open with burns and pus because _she was struck by lightning,_ and some look like someone drew on her lightly with a quill. From the impact, the bones around it are outlined in perfect black bruises – ribs, collarbones, sternum, and even the faint edges of her hipbones. All he can think is that it looks like she tried to fight the Maker Himself and only just made it out with her life.

“I’m so glad I switched armour,” she says softly.

He imagines her in her traditional dragon armour, covered in metal, and he winces. His fingers knot against the bedsheets, and she pats his hand gently.

“Will it scar?” He asks softly. 

She tips her head side to side in lieu of shrugging. “A little, maybe, the ones that split, but the rest will fade in a day." It's almost a shame, this living artistry and visible mark of her survival, and perhaps his face shows it, because she smiles a little. "I might get it tattooed on.”

He smiles. “That would be quite the sight.” He can imagine it - the marks creeping up over the few lower neck tops that she owns, and down her arms. 

Her fingers brush over his hand, squeezing it. They say nothing about her nudity, her fragility and the shape of her. All he notices is that she isn't as frail as when he first met her. There is muscle and fat on her bones, visible signs of her gaining strength. She pulls the blanket back up over her chest and he gently tucks it in around her chin. She rolls her eyes. "I'm not a child, Blackwall."

He chuckles. "No. But let me work some of my worry out. I thought I lost you."

Clarice's expression twists and she runs a finger along his jaw. His voice catches. "Your heart _stopped_, Clarice. I almost..." _lost you._

She tips him forward again so their foreheads touch. He lifts their hands to his mouth, presses her against his in a kiss as he shakes with the last of his worry. There are no words, only the tangible reminder that they are here and they are okay. Her thumb brushes his, but he can feel her shaking too, the realization slowly setting in that she nearly died. Again.

_After all of this, I am taking her on a vacation._

“We’ll stay for a bit, until you are able to walk, however long that takes. And we are leaving the dragon alone.” Blackwall says firmly.

She shifts in bed, wincing with the movement, and her smile is self-deprecating. "You do not have to tell me twice."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (I imagine they have to stay for about a week until she can walk unaided. Cullen sends a very angry email.)


	27. Chapter 27

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I know not all that may be coming, but be it what it will, I'll go to it laughing.” - Moby Dick
> 
> Call Me Imshael. Or fuck Sahrnia, as the case may be.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Battle Couple. And honestly...I missed the personalized desire demon options from DA2, and with Imshael being an ancient desire demon, I had to work with it.

Blackwall thought he had seen snow before he came to Emprise du Lion. He had been here on a mission, once upon a time. It had been chilly in the way that towns up in the mountains were, but not like this. The ice is several feet thick in more than a few places, and the icicles on statues and waterfalls are as tall as fort walls.

Idly, Blackwall wonders if his spit would freeze before it hit the ground.

Clarice hates the cold. They had stumbled into their tents their first night in Sahrnia, too tired from marching to think about the weather, and had just accepted the extra blankets without a second thought. Come morning when they stepped out of the tent, however, and the cold wind cut into their bare patches of skin like a knife. Blackwall cursed, Solas let out a breath like it had been punched out of him, Varric swore and made an idle comment about being as cold as Maferath’s heart, and Clarice...

Clarice’s eyes had gone elsewhere, losing their focus as she froze in place. Her hand had gripped her marked wrist, almost on instinct, and as her breath puffed out in the cold air, it sped up as she began to hyperventilate.

It didn’t take Blackwall long to recognize where her mind had taken her: the Frostbacks, crawling through the mine under Haven, dragging broken bones and near frost bitten limbs through the snow, trying to find her only chance of survival. 

He took off his glove and pressed his warm hand to the back of her neck. She let out a breath, shaking and fast, and turned to look at him. Her eyes focused on him, and he kept his hand there as he whispered, “Lets get you in something warmer, hey?” _You don’t have to suffer here. You are not there. You are not alone in the cold._

As Clarice slowly comes back to herself, she nods without a word and slides back in the tent. When the warm air wraps her up again, she lets out a sob, hands knotting into fists at her sides. Blackwall doesn't touch her again, not when she is holding together by a thread, but the grateful look she shoots him warms his heart. Her voice is soft and shaky. "Can't take the fire with us, can we?"

He chuckles softly. "No, I think that might just alert the red templars. But if we find some stones, I think there are runes that can store heat. Solas might know them."

"I'll ask." When she can breathe calmly again, she digs in her travelling trunk, overflowing with items that had been gathered over the course of their travels. Armour she has made, weapons she's found, and even the little case of valuables that she keeps safe and sound.

(_She showed him them once. An acorn charm looted from a mage, a collection of toy soldiers found in ruins (except for one Ferelden Toy Soldier that smells like Redcliffe clay gone wrong, that makes her frown with sadness when she looks at it, that she whispers little promises to on bad days), a medallion of service, an ivory halla figurine given as a gift by Keeper Hawen, a wooden mabari statue that was apparently the only thing she was able to take from Ferelden Circle. They are the first things she was able to have, and he is beyond honoured that she showed them to him. He will keep them safe too.)_

Blackwall does up the tent door to make sure no wind comes in. From the sounds through the tent walls, Varric and Solas are doing the same. After a few moments of rummaging, she makes a sound of discovery and draws out a massive coat with a fur lined hood, made of leather and thick fur. And then three others of varying sizes.

“Where did that come from?” Blackwall asks in surprise, eyebrows shooting up.

“Thane Sun-Hair,” Clarice replies. “Said I needed something to keep the wind from taking me away."

He lets out a little huff of laughter as he takes the coat she hands him. It's well-made, bulky enough to provide warmth without hindering movement, and it might just fit him perfectly. Blackwall swaps out of most of his metal armour for the coat, leaving them by the chest in a good spot. Clarice helps, smoothing down the coat in spots that crinkle.

"I can do it myself," he teases.

"I know."

There is tangible care in her hands as she tucks in the loose edges, makes sure he's appropriately warm and all covered up, and oh, he loves her. With a silent question and an equally silent answer, he cups her cheek in a gloved hand, and she tilts her head into it, closing her eyes.

"Let me know if you're cold," he says softly. "We'll find a spot to camp and rest."

"You too."

He carries the other two over to Varric and Solas, who accept them gratefully. Solas doesn't say anything at how pink Blackwall's cheeks are, and Varric simply makes a jab at how cold it is outside. Still, Blackwall waits by the door until everyone is assembled and wrapped head to toe in fur.

Clarice steps out shortly after. Her coat hood is down and she’s wearing a brightly coloured knit hat on top with a pom-pom on top. Varric laughs at the sight and Blackwall lets out a sigh of affection.

“You look cute, Mouse. Who made it?” Varric asks.

“Master Dennett’s wife,” Clarice isn’t sheepish in the slightest, but her smile is soft at the kindness shown to her. "Said it was for my ears."

"A kind gesture," Solas says softly, "and while I doubt Miss Dennett knew you would face this weather, I think she knew it would get good use. If not particularly fashionable."

Clarice nods with a smile. "Now, let's go deal with some Red Templars."

* * *

"**Another one?**"

Varric speaks for them all as yet another red lyrium infected _giant_ charges at them. Blackwall aches from head to toe, covered in bruises and cuts, and they are running low on every potion that they have. He hopes that somewhere in Suledin Keep there is a supply cache. They are going to need it to face the demon. In the meantime, he settles for Solas and Clarice casting Barrier as many time as they can, and for the Healing Mist grenade Clarice will throw down post-fight. It's not much, but it helps.

"Behind you!"

Blackwall sees Clarice summon a boulder from the Fade and ducks as she throws it over his head. It collides with something with a huff, and he turns around to see two Red Templars lying on the ground with dents in their helmets. He slams his sword into one, finding the crack between helmet and armour, and Clarice quickly freezes the one next to him so that he can shatter it with his shield. "Thank you!" He calls back. 

She gives the slightest of nods of acknowledgement and turns to face the giant. He works to finish the last of the Templars while he hears her roar with exertion and try to crush the giant in a prison of force magic. It does damage, from what he hears, but it isn't enough. Solas is shooting spell after spell, Varric is trying to aim for the giant's small eyes, and when Blackwall finally turns, Clarice has to Fade Step away in a panic as the giant tries to jump on her. She skids in the snow, sliding on her back for a few feet, and scrabbles to her feet.

"Fuck this thing," she snarls and stabs her staff into the snow. Her hands free, Blackwall, even without magic, can feel the power she begins to draw into herself. White magic wraps around her hands, green tendrils flickering into it as she draws on the mark for strength, and her face is set with concentration and anger. The magic sprays off her fingers to wrap around the giant, caging its long arms, and with a scream of effort, she drags it to the ground. And pins it there. Solas coats the legs in ice, trying to help her, and Varric quickly coats his arrows in Tears of the Dead.

Blackwall charges up and hacks into the giant's thick skin, trying to rip open wounds even as it writhes, trying to break free. But Clarice, with her indomitable focus, will simply not let it go. Varric shoots into the giant's open mouth and the poison begins to work. Bones crunch under Clarice's magic, blood spills into the snow, and Blackwall nails the final strike, stabbing his sword deep into the giant's throat, where he guesses the main artery is. He is completely coated in blood in the process, but finally, _finally, _the giant dies.

Clarice sinks to her knees in the snow and falls forward, panting. Solas sinks to the ground to sit, and Blackwall does the same, sitting on his shield. They gather their breath, and Clarice has just barely enough energy to lob a healing mist grenade between them to heal them up.

Varric says in between panting breaths, "I am writing this down. There's no way I could make it up."

Solas smiles. "I will most certainly remember it."

All Blackwall can do is smile at Clarice with pride. She looks at him with the same.

When they all can breathe without panting, they all get to their feet. Clarice pulls her staff out of the ground, letting the ripples of electricity warm her, and she looks up the path to what looks like the upper sanctum of the Keep.

"Well, let's not keep Imshael waiting," Varric grumbles. "Shit, I hate desire demons."

"Why?" Blackwall asks.

"Because they know exactly what you want and they dangle it in front of you. Hawke ran into one in the Fade and the offer it made me was so tempting that I turned on him." The shame in Varric's voice is palpable. "Don't even let it offer you anything. Just kill it."

* * *

"Ah, the hero arrives. Or is it murderer? It's so hard to tell."

There's something about Imshael's face that sets Blackwall on edge. The demon looks so _normal_, like someone he'd pass by in the street, but the eyes...the eyes are dead inside. Intelligent yes, but dead. Not like how Clarice's were empty and numb, but like light never even managed to make its way in in the first place.

Varric frowns. "So this is the demon called Imshael."

The demon coughs. "A_hem._ Choice. Spirit."

Blackwall feels his unease fill his voice. "Time to die."

The demon looks, for just a moment, frightened. "Wait, wait, _wait! _These are your friends? And..." the demon raises an eyebrow, looking them over and stopping at Blackwall, "and the man you love? Well, I'm not here to question your taste."

Clarice's shoulders stiffen and Blackwall feels sick. _How dare he. _

"It doesn't matter. They're all rather violent, aren't they? It's worrying," Imshael's mouth ticks up in a smirk. "True to my name, I will show you that you have a choice. It doesn't have to end in blood."

Her fingers tighten around her staff. "Talk."

Of all of the reactions to her words, Solas is the one who looks the most devastated. Blackwall heard about how much time he spent working with Clarice to tell the difference between spirit and demon, to keep her safe from temptation, and how difficult her Harrowing was so shortly after getting her magic back. And now she is standing on a very dangerous edge. Blackwall feels his heart in his throat.

"Yeah, that...never ends well," Varric mutters.

Imshael makes a gesture to brush them aside, paying them no mind, and focusing his attention directly on Clarice. "Simple. We don't fight, and I grant you what you desire. Someone of your rank I would normally offer power, riches, or maybe virgins. Not that I can find virgins easily nowadays," the demon shakes his head in mock annoyance, "but you...don't want any of those things. No, no, no."

Imshael doesn't move, but it feels like his presence expands around Clarice, like an arm wrapping around her shoulders. Her back stiffens, her shoulders tight, and he's willing to bet that she's white-knuckling her staff. Blackwall feels a desperate need to throw his sword at the demon's face and tell it to leave her alone.

"If I asked you a few months ago, your greatest desire would be for me to kill you," Imshael shakes his head, looking almost disappointed (and a little more so when none of them react to the news), "which is such a shame, really. But that isn't it anymore. No...you sweet little thing, all pain and despair...you want the life you lost."

No one speaks.

"You want your pain and nightmares gone so that you can live a normal life with friends and family. And him."

Imshael's eyes settle on Blackwall and Blackwall can't help the growl that creeps out of him. _How **dare he?**_

"I can give you that. Then we all live happily ever after. Well, not all of us, but who's counting?"

"Fuck you," Clarice spits.

"A little harsh," Imshael wheedles.

"No." Her voice is as firm as a mountain. "You die, Forgotten One."

Somewhere beside him, Blackwall swears that Solas's eyes bug out of his head in horror.

Imshael laughs. It's a cruel sound, delighted, like a torturer getting new prey. "Clever girl. But not smart. If you can't be smart..." Imshael's form ripples and takes the form of a Fear Demon. "Then be afraid."

With that, Clarice throws a boulder directly into Imshael's face. "No." The word is final, and Blackwall grins as he draws his sword.

_You underestimated her, demon._

* * *

They return to the tents just outside Sahrnia, happy to leave Suledin Keep to itself. They don't quite sag into the beds, exhausted and in pain. No, they aren't quite ready to be separated, so all four of them gather in Clarice and Blackwall's tent. The blankets make a cozy nest, and they hover around a small fire, holding cups of frankly disgusting soup to keep warm. They are quiet, lost in their own thoughts, Clarice most of all. She twirls her spoon in the cup, watching it and the fire, never quite able to meet their eyes.

It is Solas who breaks the quiet first. "Your desire is nothing to be ashamed of, Clarice."

Her shoulders relax for a moment, but her eyes flick up to search Solas's expression. She shakes her head, wordless.

"Mouse, after everything you've been through, it's not bad to want some time to stop and _not _have to rush into danger," Varric says soothingly, "and have good nights sleeps and spend all the time in the world with the people you care about. It's a good thing to want and fight for."

Blackwall touches his knee lightly against hers, not saying anything. After a moment, she touches his with the lightest bit of pressure.

"I just want to be _normal,"_ she says after a painful moment of silence.

"I don't think we are good judges of that," Blackwall replies, and Clarice lets out a little huff of laughter. The pressure against his knee grows ever so slightly.

Solas continues, "And you didn't take his offer. From a Forgotten One, no less."

Varric frowns. "What does that mean?"

"He was one of the first demons to talk to human magi," Clarice replies. "You met one, Varric. That desire demon in Kirkwall, from the blood magic books."

Varric swears softly. "So he was powerful."

"Yes."

"And you told him to go fuck himself and threw a boulder in his face."

Clarice starts to smile wider. "Yes."

Varric grins at her. "Then you're right on the way to normal, Mouse."


	28. Battle Couple

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What Pride Hath Wrought.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have been rewatching some clips of my Inquisition playthrough and I love seeing how to combat evolves and the new strategies that come with new spells. 
> 
> I thought it was good to revisit the fighting theme, with that.

It's Morrigan who makes Blackwall consider it, although he will never tell the witch that she had a part to play in his relationship.

As the group plows through the Arbor Wilds, moving as quickly as they can to the Temple of Mythal within, there isn't much room for idle talk. Varric drops the usual quip here and there, as he usually does, but they save their breath to run from one group of enemies to the next. The Red Templars are fierce fighters and while they seem to know that they won't succeed, they make the Inquisition work for every death. Their Master has commanded it, after all. Blackwall is more than happy to send them to the Maker's Side with the hope that they will be at peace.

They deal with more than one Behemoth, but they know how to bring them down. As the last one falls at the gates of the Temple, Morrigan gives Clarice a lopsided smirk that pretends to be a smile. "You are a skilled mage, Inquisitor. You fight well."

Clarice gives a nod in return, her eyes brimming with pride. "Thank you, Morrigan. I've had good teachers and a _lot_ of practice." Her eyes cut over to Blackwall, Solas, and Varric, giving them a small smile. Blackwall doesn't look at the other men's faces, but he is sure that they look exactly like he feels: proud and happy for her.

* * *

They don't have time for this, but Clarice still leans her staff up against a tree and walks the Pilgrim's Path. The squares light up under her feet and even though she's got her back to him, he can imagine her furrowed brow as she maps out the route, playing trial and error to find the right path. His mind wanders for a moment and he finds himself considering Morrigan's words.

_You fight well._

He remembers those early days with the Inquisition where Clarice was practically scared of her own shadow. She was afraid of her magic and that fear of losing control made her lose control even more. Never mind the battles themselves: she hid behind Cassandra's shield - and then eventually behind his own, as she began to favour him over the overbearing Seeker - and tried to avoid fights to the point of hilarity. She'd climbed more than a few slopes to avoid bandits in the Hinterlands and ended up walking right into a bear. It was the aftermath of Redcliffe, he remembers, that marked a change in her fighting style. Whatever she'd done there, whatever she'd seen, made her realize that she had to learn to fight. The Inquisitor couldn't just hide.

Vivienne, Solas, and Dorian worked hard at training her to control her magic. Varric and Iron Bull taught her to dance out of harm's way, to control the battlefield and make it a place of confidence. Cole and Sera (not together, of course) gave her confidence, both on the battlefield and outside of it. And Blackwall, well, he'd just done what he could to show her how she could make her magic useful and he'd been a friend. A friend pining after her until she felt brave enough to walk towards him, of course, but a friend.

Now, it's paying off. Clarice has a command of magic greater than she had before the Circle and in more schools than she knew before. Her use of Force Magic is strong and controlled, even if the magic itself is chaotic, and when she builds the power of rifts into it, it's terrifying. She balances offensive spells with supportive spells, learning to heal as well as hurt, and she builds strategies with the others in the party. It is beyond satisfying when a combination of their skills make their enemies fall. Most of all, though: she's taken her fear and turned it into courage. She is still afraid, if a bit less so, and she has taken that fear by the balls to make it work for her. Her fear of hurting others has turned into care that makes every spell weave around her friends and hit even harder into her foes. She's grown and changed, and she is so strong.

_Maker, I love her._

The singing of the squares grows louder with the completion of the path, and Clarice steps down from them. Blackwall hands her staff to her and she gives him a nod of gratitude. "That's the last one," she says gently. "Now let's see what the Pilgrim's Path gives us. And gets us closer to Samson."

* * *

"What are you going to do with him?” Blackwall doesn't need to say who he means.   
  
Clarice sighs as she levels her stride to match his. “He won’t surrender. He hates us too much, has come too far to give in. We break his armour, knock him down, and take him back to sky hold.”  
  
“Not killing him?” Blackwall raises an eyebrow. “Do you really think a man such as him deserves mercy?”  
  
She shrugs. “Everyone deserves a second chance,” That should sting, but it doesn’t anymore. He smiles a little with the thought as she continues, “Besides, he has information we need. And I want to talk to him.”  
  
“What’s the plan for fighting him?”  
  
“You tell me. You’re tactics, my dear.”  
  
Whatever he was going to say fades with those two words. _My dear. _His heart nearly stops and his stride does, freezing him in his tracts. She notices immediately and turns to him. The temple hallways are dark, but he can see the smile on her face and the warmth in her eyes. He blinks, not sure what to say, and she replies, "It felt right." She doesn't apologize, although he has a feeling that her instincts wanted her to. 

He finds words quickly around his dry mouth and pounding heart. "It's...nice. I like it." More than like it, but a man has to have some pride. Her eyes sparkle and he catches up to her. When they aren't about to enter a battle, he'll think of a pet name to use for her. Now, though. "His main weapon of choice is a greatsword. I am sure that breaking the armour will make this fight easier than it would be otherwise, but I'm willing to bet that he'll still be stronger and faster. We'll have to wear him down while trying not to get hit."

Varric calls from ahead, "That much red lyrium on him? I don't want to get _near _him."

That is a fair point, actually. "I'll draw as much of his attention as I can. You hit him from afar and anyone that comes along. If there's anything you can do to make my attacks hit harder, do it, but that armour probably will absorb a lot of it." Blackwall rolls his shoulders in a stretch, preparing as much as he can. "Clarice and Solas, barriers up as much as you can. If you can open a rift or drop meteors on him, go for it. Varric, let Biance work her magic."

Varric chuckles. "She always does."

Clarice adds, "And don't forget the regeneration potions. They should help with any damage."

Right. He always forgets those and panics when he runs out of health potions mid-battle.

They approach the last door, the only barrier between them and Samson, and Blackwall turns to look at Clarice, his Inquisitor. "Are you ready, my lady?" 

...that's it. That's her pet name. It's the only pet name that fits her. The word is already full with as much affection as he can shove into a single word. _My lady. _

She hears it too and murmurs, "I like it."

"You two are too cute. You do know we have a fight coming, though," Varric teases.

With that, Clarice grips her staff, power curling around the end of it, and she nods. "Ready."

And out they go.


	29. Chapter 29

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Clarice tries to earn the approval of Stone Bear Hold. By getting the shit kicked out of her.
> 
> She gets Blackwall to help her soon after.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One good thing about being stuck at home because of COVID-19: you get a lot of writing done. Short and sweet, but still a thought that I wanted to get out.
> 
> On the home stretch!

Stone-Bear Hold is a nice place, all things considered. The Avvar are honest and fair people, with good information about the area, good drink and humour, and enough strength to put a dragon down, if they tried. They are a bit patronizing with their treatment of 'Lowlanders', but Blackwall knows that many people in 'civilized' areas think the same of the Avvar, so it's not exactly new. Clarice took to them immediately, exploring, helping out, treating them and their customs with respect, and trying to prove herself worthy of them. She didn't fit in very well - Blackwall can't imagine Clarice as an Avvar herself, too much attached to her books and the safety of walls - but that doesn't stop her from trying.

“Where did Clarice go?”

“Something about seeing Arrken Feldsen,” Blackwall replies, leaning against the rock wall and watching Varric work on Bianca.

“I have no idea who that is, Hero. Not really an answer.” Varric shrugs, replacing the sights with a new pair that Clarice crafted for him.

Blackwall turns to look at a woman nearby making her sword. "Where might we find Arrken Feldsen?"

“Oh, him?” The woman laughs. “Means your lady love has gone to take the Trials of Hakkon in the arena.” She points to a path leading up above the hold.

“Meaning?” He asks, somewhat dreading the answer.

“A contest of arms.”

Solas is the one to say it, shaking his head. “And she went alone, to try and prove herself strong.”

Varric sighs loudly. “She’s not going to win. Mouse is good, but she can’t take on that many people on her own.”

Blackwall winces. He wants to jump in and protect her, but he knows better than to interfere with a decision that she’s made. She’s going to go through with this, whether he likes it or not, and even though he knows it’s not a good idea. He gets why she did it, though. Clarice has been watching the Avvar in the time they’ve been in Stone Bear Hold and as much as she knows her own strength, he’s heard what they have said about her. She’s a strong mage, true, but her physical strength has much to be desired. She can’t climb unless she’s running on sheer adrenaline, she dislikes swimming because sticking her head underwater feels like she’s in the Fade again, she struggles at hand to hand combat, and she wears light armour to allow her magic to flow (and so she can run without doubling over and gasping for breath). She's no warrior, not like them, and she certainly can't take on a trial alone, no matter how much she tries. 

"And what will we do about it?" Solas asks.

"You sound like you have a thought, Solas," Blackwall arches an eyebrow at the man.

Solas finishes whatever spell he is doing to attune his staff and puts it down, clasping his hands on his lap. "She won't want to bring all of us to face the battle - that only proves the point that she isn't strong enough to do this alone. But she won't want to give up. There are only a few options within that."

In the distance, there is the sound of clashing metal, battle cries of Avvar, but it doesn't sound like an attack. It reminds him of training drills, of brothers getting ready to playfight each other, and he pays keen attention. The woman nearby says, "And so it begins."

The sounds don't last long, only a couple of minutes, and soon there is a figure walking away from the arena, slow and steady, almost limping. Some warriors offer to help her walk, Blackwall thinks, but she just continues alone. Her stride evens out as she walks, healing magic doing its work, and her stride quickens on the way up to their workstation. He rests against the wall, waiting for her to come to them. That's his girl - too stubborn for her own good.

She looks badly bruised, covered in slowly healing cuts, and she doesn't say a word. There is determination in her face, her grip tight on her staff, her jaw set. Her eyes scan them, sharp as ever, but they settle on Blackwall. Her expression softens a little, as it always does when she looks at him, but she offers a hand to him, wordlessly.

Blackwall smiles and rests his hand loosely on the hilt of his sword, pushing off from the wall. She didn't need to ask out loud, and he doesn't need to answer. Her little smile is enough for him.

Varric teases, "You kids have fun. Don't do anything I wouldn't do." Clarice flashes him a look, but she snorts with held back laughter anyway. It's remarkably endearing.

"Our usual methods?" He asks as they walk. 

Her eyes sparkle. "Is there any other way?"

* * *

"I hear you two taught my warriors some new tricks," Thane Sun-Hair looks amused, the campfire lighting up the laugh lines by her eyes, "when you passed Hakkon's Trials."

Clarice sits cross-legged across from the Thane, her knee resting against Blackwall's shin, a plate of fish resting on her lap. They are welcome guests at the Thane's fire, especially since Clarice has slowly won more and more favour from the hold. She nods to the Thane, a pleased expression on her face as she takes a bite of fish. "We did not hold back, Thane Sun-Hair."

Blackwall smiles a bit more openly, pausing in his meal. "Aye, the Trial deserved the best that we could offer, and it was a good test for us as well."

"You fight well together. A good bond in battle and off of it, from what I hear."

It is hard to tell in the firelight, but Blackwall is fairly certain that Clarice's cheeks go pink at that. Her knee presses more against his shin, her eyes staying straight ahead, and he rests his hand on her shoulder. Clarice is not always open with her affection towards him, especially not in the field, but she has her ways. Besides, he knows that she likes hearing that they make a good couple. It makes her feel more...normal.

"Thank you, Thane Sun-Hair," Blackwall replies. 

"You'll have to show us those skills again, when we face the Jaws of Hakkon together."

Clarice's mouth twitches in more of a smile. "We will be happy to."


	30. Chapter 30

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Down once more to this darkness deep as hell..._
> 
> The Descent.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I HAVE FINALLY BEATEN THE BASE GAME OF INQUISITION WITH THE TWO DLCS
> 
> THIS MEANS I CAN ACTUALLY FINISH THIS STORY SOON. HA _HA._

“At some point, I think I’m going to be afraid of the dark.”

Shaper Valta snorts at Clarice’s comment, sticking close to her as they walk through the cavern.

“Oh?” Valta asks, taking the distraction gladly. “I thought you surfacers still got the night.”

“Not like this,” Clarice replies, stepping over a pointed rock. “Even at night, there’s the moon or the hint of stars, like the lyrium down here. Or the Sha-Brytol’s eyes. This dark, where I can barely see my hand in front of my face…”

Her staff casts a faint blue light around them, the only light the group has to stop them from walking into every rock around them. This far down, below what they know to be the Deep Roads, there’s so little light that even the Orzammar dwarf, a little more used to navigating in the dark, has to strain. Never mind the surfacers - Dorian stubbed his toe on a rock he hadn’t seen and let out a hissed curse that echoed in the cramped space; Blackwall nearly took his head off on a glistening stalactite; Varric has given up on holding Bianca, tense as he is, and simply holds onto the fabric on Clarice’s side to keep his place. Clarice, meanwhile, just keeps walking at a slow pace, eyes straining in the dark for the Sha-Brytol.

“It is oppressive,” Dorian complains behind them. “Absolutely oppressive.”

“I couldn’t agree more,” Varric mutters. “Give me sunlight any time.”

Valta looks a little uneasy at the comment, Blackwall thinks, but she seemed to pretend she didn’t hear. “It is a bit much. And with some of those lights being the eyes of our foes, that doesn’t really help.”

“I don’t want to risk lighting this all up,” Clarice murmurs. “I don’t want to warn anything.”

Valta looks up at her again and frowns. Blackwall wonders, for a moment, what the Shaper sees. The Inquisitor, this brave bastion of hope from the surface…looks uneasy. Her pupils are blown wide to try and see as best as she can in the dark, her fingers grip tight around her staff, and her other clenched fist glows with green and white light. She doesn’t look afraid or any degree of terrified, which is a definite sign of growth, but he knows that it throws people off to see the leader looking frightened. Hell, it threw him off the first time he met her, especially when he realized that the woman who seemed more frightened rabbit than human was the Herald of Andraste. Now, though, he sees her straight back, the controlled pulse of a readied spell at her fingers, and her raised chin.

“A good strategy,” he murmurs softly. “Even if we’ll end up with a few bruises.”

There’s a prompt smack of flesh against stone and Varric growls out a curse through clenched teeth, bouncing to clutch his shin. Everyone freezes, pausing for a moment, ears pricked. They listen to see if anyone heard that. Blackwall’s heart thumps for a moment in his ears.

But nothing comes.

Clarice sighs with relief and picks up her pace a little. “Come on. I have questions about the Sha-Brytol.”

“I do as well,” the Shaper follows. Blackwall leads Dorian through the dark while Varric continues to cling to Clarice’s armour.

All the while, lyrium sparkles at them in the dark and Blackwall cannot help but see eyes in every vein.

* * *

There is a body pressing against him. Blackwall blinks for a moment, but he recognizes the touch soon enough as a forehead touches the nape of his own.

_Clarice. _

She is still tucked into her bedroll, buried up to her nose in the fabric, but she has curled around his own. Her knees tuck against his butt, her feet pressing against the curve of his knees, and her body curves around the curve of his back. Her forehead, a little damp and chilly, rests against his own, and he feels a faint puff of breath.

No small wonder that she is trying to snuggle: it is cold down here. They had been in caves before, noted the cold damp air that came in them, but there is something about these caves beneath the Deep Roads that feels different. Not a biting cold, like in the Temple of Hakkon, but a kind of faint throbbing cold. Perhaps it is the lyrium. Blackwall doesn’t know.

Not to mention that this isn’t exactly the safest of situations. They are almost at the innermost chamber of the Bastion fo the Pure, a place lit up brightly with lyrium light so brightly that it looks like daylight, and this little campsite is the last spot they can rest before the fight that awaits. Dorian is currently taking watch, if Blackwall isn’t mistaken.

He doesn’t speak - he doesn’t want to wake anyone else up - and simply presses back into a little more. The fabric is a significant barrier, not letting them feel the other’s body heat, only giving a bit of comfort. Still, Clarice’s breath puffs against his neck. A little shaky. He thinks he feels her grip through her bedroll to his, gripping tightly. His hand reaches back to pat hers, but it is a feeble attempt.

Now, the question of the hour: what will her boundaries allow? She is cold, he is cold, and if he stretches his imagination, they are both uneasy.

...screw it. If she says no, then they can go back to what they were doing.

Eventually, he shifts a little away from Clarice and turns around in the bedroll to look at her. In the faint firelight, her pupils are huge, peering at him over the fabric. Her brow is furrowed, uncomfortable and trying to work out what Blackwall is doing. He gives her a little smile and begins undoing the buttons on the edge of his bedroll.

_Do you understand?_

Her eyes widen a little as he opens up the bedroll a little, beckoning her with his head. They are both fully clothed under this, wearing the thin under layers they keep under their armour, but this would be closer than they have ever been. Even when he has seen her half-naked or carried her in his arms, they were never this close. The thoughts churn visibly in her expression, but after a moment of shivering, she nods.

She undoes the buttons on her bedroll, her fingers shaking against the fine control needed, and opens it up enough to clamber out. Not a second is wasted. A bundle of legs and arms, Clarice wiggles out of the bedroll and Blackwall lifts up the edge of his. She climbs in immediately, and he tucks it around them, doing up what buttons he can reach. As he drags her bedroll over, offering a little more barrier against the cold, Clarice gets herself settled. Her arms wrap around him, a knee tucked between his legs, and her head fits neatly on his collarbone.

Finally, they are tucked together. Her breath comes a little easier, fingers knotting for a moment in his shirt before relaxing, and he presses his nose into her hair.

He knows that this likely won’t happen again. Not for a long time. So he’s going to savour every second of this - the warmth of her body under his hands, the faint thump of her heart, the smell of her skin and hair (even under the grime of the Deep Roads), the light weight of her on top of him, her thumb rubbing little circles on his ribs…

Her smile against his chest.

Blackwall had always thought that he’d end up in the Deep Roads at some point, if the Joining had been successful (or if he played his part well). He didn’t think he would be this far down.

And he definitely thought that he’d be alone.

When they wake, they will have to deal with what other horrors the depths have for them. But for now, they drift off to sleep in comfort, sharing a stolen moment together in all of this chaos.


	31. Finale

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Doom Upon All The World

When the sky lights up green again, a hole tearing open in the clouds above what Blackwall knows is the Temple of Sacred Ashes, his heart drops into his stomach. _No. No, no, no, no, not now, not while we have no army at all. _

Clearly, he isn’t the only one thinking that. Master Dennett steps out of the stable, looking up at the sky, and gives the Warden a look. It’s not scared - Dennett never outright shows fear, but there is urgency in it. Finally, the stable master snaps, “Well, don’t just stand there, Warden, get out there! Get the bastard!”

Then there is a shout from the tavern, and Blackwall looks to see a familiar mop of brown hair standing on the wall. “BEARDIE GET UP HERE WE’RE GOING TO PUNCH CORYPHESHIT'S FACE IN!”

(He would say that he doesn’t need to be told twice, but there they are.)

His feet move without thinking, charging forward and up the stairs to meet the assembling group. Cole is climbing down the roof of the tavern from his overlook on the top floor, the Chargers gather together from their various spots, Vivienne leans out from her balcony, and Dorian and Solas rush out from their library posts together. Everyone, not quite in unison, looks up at the Breach. Blackwall cannot attest to how they are feeling, but the earlier dread has started to subside into intensity. This is it. This is the moment that all of them have been hoping for since they got a glimpse at who was responsible for everything that had gone wrong. For the Wardens, for the Templars, for everyone who had been hurt by the rifts. And it was time to repay this monster in kind.

It is not by a sound but by her presence that he notices Clarice coming up behind them. He turns to look at her, noting the green light dancing across her hand. It's sharper than before, a stark reminder to the last surge of the Breach. He wonders idly if it hurts. Her fist clenches, eyes on the sky, and then her eyes settle on him. They had hoped for a moment to talk before the final battle, but there was no time. Their eyes lock and he hopes that he can say everything that he needs to.

_I love you. Please don’t die. I will not have time with you after this, once I go to the Wardens, but I want to spend as long with you as I can. _

Her eyes soften as they look at him, enough affection in the gaze to make his throat tight.

It’s enough.

She comes down the steps quickly, stopping at the bottom, and the eyes of her Inner Circle turn to her. She swallows and begins to speak, voice ready for battle. “We’re facing this together, all of us. Morrigan will be backing us up with whatever power she summons on Mythal’s behalf, but there will be no soldiers to help us. They are still in the Arbor Wilds. It’s just us and that…_thing_.” Her voice curdles with the word. “And we do not have the luxury of failing. There some new armour and weapons in the Undercroft. We move out as soon as we can.”

“Can you say it?” Sera grins. “Come on, just the once, Mousey.”

Clarice sighs, but there is a little bit of mirth in her eyes as she says clearly, “Let’s go murder the bitch.”

Sera and Bull whoop. Cassandra rolls her eyes, but there is no objection as they make their way down to the Undercroft. Clarice has spent far too much time down there, many of her free moments filled with the clanging of a hammer on metal as she prepares for this fight. On a better day, perhaps there would be a show of all the hard work she has put into it. But for now, at the back of the group, Clarice touches Blackwall’s hand as they descend. Her voice is soft, a whisper of the scared woman shoved into one of the most daunting roles in history, “Promise me you won’t die?”

“If you make me that promise, I will,” he tells her, not quite able to look her in the eye.

She doesn’t answer, but her fingers knot tightly around his wrist for a moment. Then she lets go, striding to put on her dragonbone armour, her shoulders straight. There is no frightened woman now. There is only the Inquisitor, filled with determination and competence to match, with her companions at her side.

(They will hope that they survive to live in the world they've saved. They won’t hope against failure. There’s no option for them to.)

* * *

They win. And they both survive. Blackwall can finally breathe properly as she walks down the stairs from the platform, mark sparkling on her hand, eyes a little wide with disbelief. As much as his instincts wish to rush forward and sweep her into his arms, in front of everyone who has ever doubted their match, he can't find the strength to move. He's too relieved, overwhelmed with the prospect of a life ahead of him. With her.

Clarice, on the other hand, steps forward to him with clear purpose. She does not jump into his arms, but her hands clasp around his, squeezing them tight. Her forehead tips against them, anchoring herself to him, her breath coming out in a rattle as she shakes. "We're alive," she whispers over and over again. 

"We are, my lady," he tells her, smoothing his thumb over her hand. "We are."

They return to Skyhold and their victory rings out across the courtyard. Cullen looks at her with obvious pride on the landing above them, and everyone who ever spoke a word against her finds themselves speechless. A Tranquil did what no one else could. She mended the sky, saved Thedas, closed rifts, fought demons, reclaimed her magic, and changed the fabric of Thedas forever.

What a woman.

They celebrate with everyone at the party later, of course. It's too big of a festival not to, and Blackwall knows that Josephine would have lost it if Clarice didn't make it. To the Ambassador's credit, though, for as big of a party as it is, it still feels like a gathering of friends. To the Inquisitor's credit, Clarice manages to say all of her congratulations to her friends and enjoy the festivities before, in her predictable fashion, she gets too overwhelmed to stay. She doesn't say goodbye - everyone knows where she is going, and everyone knows that she isn't going to be alone.

When he enters her quarters, he finds her on the balcony, looking out at the moon and stars. Her hair ruffles in the night breeze, and her head is tilted back to look at the sky. She is outlined in silver, looking like the Herald of Andraste she pretends to be, and he feels his breath stolen from him. 

_How have I ever been able to breathe around her? When I first met her?_

The answer comes to his mind immediately. _Because it was before you saw her come alive. Now, she seems the brightest living thing in your sad little life._

"We've been through a lot, haven't we?" He greets, walking over to join her. Their shoulders brush, and she leans against him just a little.

"The destination was well worth the journey," she replies, "although I'm glad for a little rest stop now."

He smiles to himself. He will never tire of how she sees the light as well as the darkness in everything.

Still, reality must step in. “So what now?”

She steps forward and leans against the railing, turning to look at him. Her hands clasp on her lap in front of her, her eyes focusing on him with all of her quiet intensity. He is quiet, gestures for her to speak her mind. She smiles and continues, adding context to her question.

“I know you will go to the Wardens, and I will miss you, I really will,” her honesty pierces him, and her eyes do it just as deeply (_Maker, I’m in too deep_). “If I was normal, I’m sure we would know exactly what we are doing, wouldn't we?”

He does not laugh out loud, but it comes to his voice anyway. "You overestimate the common man, my lady. No one ever knows what they are doing."

She shrugs. "At the very least, I think you would have bedded me by now." She wrinkles her nose at the thought, her hands tightening on her lap, and the urgency to brush aside her disgust fills him.

“I am fond of you, exactly as you are, my lady. Whether you desire sex or you do not. I am simply glad to be with you.”

The sheer affection in her eyes floors him. "Thank you." She sounds like she's thanking him for far more than just those words. She pushes off the railing and makes her way over to him, steps light on the stone. Her hand raises in a familiar motion. “May I?”

The request is endearing coming from her, especially since he will always give permission. “Of course.”

She touches his face, thumb swiping across his cheekbone, and he finds himself tilting his head into the touch. His eyes shut and he lets out a breath that pulls all the stress from him. This woman. This woman unravels him with her gaze, her words, her touch.

He truly does not deserve her.

Then her hand slides off his face to his shoulder and there is an audible breath. It sounds like she’s steeling herself for something. He opens his eyes, frowns a bit because she shouldn’t be that concerned, but then she is standing on her toes and her arms go around his neck, pulling him close. Her head is tucked under his chin, the beard giving the faint illusion that she has hair, and his breath freezes in his chest.

A memory tugs at him.

_I will be comfortable with your touch one day. Maybe even enough for a hug._

His arms close around her without thinking, a warm embrace to protect her from the dangers of the world that already tore her to pieces, and he relaxes. He rests his chin lightly on her head and she chuckles at how his beard tickles her short hair. 

“You smell like horses,” she mutters, and he laughs.

“Pardon me for not putting on perfume, Miss Rivers,” he teases her back, soft and gentle, and is rewarded by a chuckle into his neck. He feels warm inside, light and bright, and his hand rubs her back gently.

“Perish the thought, Monsieur Rainier,” her voice sounds mocking. “You want to talk to a Fereldan like that?”

“What can I say? When you want to help the needy…”

Her laughter gets louder, and Blackwall swears he is melting into her arms. He never thought he could have this. Then there is quiet, a little moment of peace, and when the hug should become awkward, it doesn’t.

His voice is soft.

“Last chance. Whatever this is…”

She leans back to look at him. “If you’re about to tell me that I need to end this because you can’t or something stupid like that, I’m going to pinch you,” she frowns at him.

“You can’t blame me for trying.”

She pinches his neck, true to form, and he winces, although he doesn’t stop her. No, his hands are far too content resting against her back, feeling her warmth through her clothes. Instead, he just looks at her exasperated expression and waits for her answer.

“Blackwall. I…” she seems lost for words, but he is patient, awaiting whatever blow she sends his way.

“You make my life _better_.”

For all of her affirmations before, he did not expect that.

“I’m not letting go of you.” She is firm, determined, but he can see the warmth in her eyes, in how her hands pet the back of his neck. "I want you in my life. To keep making it better. For the good days and the bad, yours and mine. If you want me, I want you."

He wants to say that they will regret this in the future. He has told her as such before, but he needs to tell her again.

He wants to. But the words don’t come. 

_I want this. I want you._

When he doesn't rebut her, she smiles, warm and bright, and tightens her grip. “Now shut up and hug me, my darling.”

How can he refuse such a request? How would he ever?

“Yes, my lady.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aaaaand this is it! 
> 
> I will probably write a Trespasser epilogue, once I actually play it, and maybe a few other bits with Clarice. But thank you to everyone who has tagged along for this journey - especially dreaminglestrade, who has listened to every idea I've thrown at her. 
> 
> It is an uncertain time. Shadows fall, but steel your heart. The dawn will come.


End file.
